Sunday, August 11, 2013

Junk Food is a Valid Therapeutic Method

Hi, I'm Lucy Woodhull, romantic comedy author and junk food aficionado.  Ju, lovely lady that she is, has invited me here to tell you about my latest contemporary rom-com THE DIMPLE OF DOOM.  It's the story of an unlucky secretary/wannabe actress who falls in love with Pizza Rolls.  I mean an art thief.  Her love of Pizza Rolls happened before she knew the horrors/bliss of falling for a guy who robs Picassos for a living.

Here's the blurb:
by Lucy Woodhull

It may sound like common sense, but never hump an art thief. Turns out, Samantha Lytton's Common-Sense-O-Meter is super duper broken.

Failed actress Samantha Lytton is getting along just fine in her lonely little life when a charming criminal called Sam or Nate or maybe even Richmond kisses her, square dances most provocatively, opens his not-so-wicked heart, and gets her in trouble with not one, but two international art theft rings as well as the LAPD.

She's either gonna end up in jail or famous.  Maybe both.

Along the way, she fights for her life and falls for this funny, sexy disaster of a man… and learns that finding happily-ever-after with yourself is the first step to real contentment. A cute dimple is just the second.

Confession:  I, too, love Pizza Rolls -- that part of the book was not difficult for me to write.  The crispy outside.  The molten lava inside that burns your tongue but you don't really care because of the sweet, sweet artificial pizza goodness inside.

Life is not going so well for my heroine Samantha Lytton:  Her day job sucks ass, there are no decent men in Los Angeles, and her mother calls just to order her to be prettier in order to catch a husband.  Sometimes the sweet abandon of Pizza Rolls and Netflix is just what a girl needs to ignore her problems and hope they'll magically go away.  It might have worked, too, if she hadn't been kidnapped by a hot dude with a dimple.  But, then again, she kidnaps him in retaliation, so things are lookin' up!  If only the LAPD would stop chasing them...
Samantha and her anti-hero both have a passion for the junkier side of food – her for eating it, him for licking off what she dribbles onto her cleavage.  It’s a match made in deep-fried heaven.  It’s important for a couple on the run to have food enjoyment in common, whether that food comes in a greasy paper wrapper or from the vegan farmer’s market.

Below is a sample from THE DIMPLE OF DOOM, book one in the Samantha Lytton series.  Leave a comment and tell me what's your favorite "GAH! Life sucks!" snack food for a chance to win a free copy.
Available from:  Total-E-Bound, Amazon,, B&N, Sony. For iBook users, buy from Total-E-Bound and choose ePub format. (Releasing in print October, 2013.)

Thanks so much for reading!
* * *

Chapter One:

It’s a Not-So-Wonderful Life

Accountants should not be so sexy.

It all started at the office Christmas party, as many terrible hangovers do.

My palms began to sweat at the sight of The Accountant walking in my direction. His shining eyes said, I wanna spread your sheet, his masterful gait said, Damn, I’m masterful, and his tantalising smirk said, I’ve read the Kama Sutra—all the way through.

I swallowed the lump of lust in my throat and twiddled with the tablecloth of the catered buffet table. My usual party plan involved making winsome eyes at the food, but tonight I salivated over more than just the pigs in a blanket.

"Potato ball?" he asked. Sam Turner, aka The Accountant, held the fried offering palm up on a festive red and green paper plate.

I had the hots for a dude named Sam. My name is Samantha. Samantha ‘n’ Sam. It was the stuff of obnoxious wedding invitations.

What colour were his hazel eyes today? Glancing up, I slid into hormone heaven. He stood, eyes mossy green pools of sensual seductiveness, and offered me the Garden of Eden apple. Except it was a potato ball.

Cocking my head, I posed in an alluring manner that I hoped brought Marilyn Monroe to mind. I should say something. Something not stupid.

"I love balls." Oh, damn. "And potatoes!" Did I just tell him I loved to eat balls? "I mean I love to eat food! In ball form. You know. Because it’s easy. To eat. Except when it rolls. Then it can be hard to catch."



"Okay." Sam’s lips turned upward in mockery on his almost handsome, totally charming face, topped in curling, floppy, please-run-your-hands-through-me brown hair.

Yes, I absolutely had told him I loved to eat balls. I decided I should smile through this faux pas. Everyone knew a bright grin made unpleasant things go away. Ask Judy Garland.

"I like food in stick or chip form myself," he said, munching a piece of celery in stick form.

I couldn’t come up with anything to say about sticks that wasn’t dirty. "Chips are good." Really, I impressed even myself with the brilliance of my witty banter. At any moment my clothes would be ripped off my quivering body by Sam, my same-named accounting crush.

I hated the office Christmas party.

Sam blinked and appraised me in what I chose to interpret as a captivated manner. A girl could dream. Instead he said, "So, Scott told me you entertained the employees at last year’s party."

"Yes. I fell down the steps." My cheeks burned like the carpet at the end of two flights of stairs. I wasn’t clumsy too often, but when I made the effort, I really won at it. "You can still see the splotch on the floor from the blood. I lost a tooth, but gained a reputation."

"That’s gross." He grinned. One wouldn’t call him drop-dead gorgeous or anything. At first, you might consider him kinda ordinary-looking. Then the naughty glimmer in his eye caught your breath. The smile appeared, emphasising the lickable curve of his bottom lip. Charm emanated from his very pores.

And, of course, he possessed the nuclear weapon of facial features. The dimple. Only one—on the left side of his face—deep enough to bury yourself in. One flicker and panties fell at thirty paces.

My body temperature had suddenly shot upward to somewhere near surface of the sun levels. I’d disconnected completely from the conversation and reverted to teenage-girl-like gawking.
I took a steadying breath and jumped back into the fray. "So, accounting? Is that as glamorous as it sounds?" I had, apparently, decided that deriding his profession was the way to go, flirt-wise. Plays like this were risky, but desperation had sunk in. His temp job in the finance department ended today—I would have no more chances to bend and snap at the water cooler for his benefit.

The corners of his sometimes green, sometimes brown, always dreamy eyes crinkled. "Of course. Usually I have eight models in my accounting entourage, but I gave them the night off."

Uh-oh. He was funny, too. It just wasn’t fair. "How kind of you. You could say you’re a model boss! Ha ha!" Yes, I laughed at my own joke, which was a behaviour shared by the most sophisticated of ladies. Then I remembered I turned a horrid shade of blotchy red when I got too excited. I choked off my laughter and forced down some potato.

"I could say that, but I won’t."

"No, you really shouldn’t."

The dimple chose that moment to come out and play. Oh, Sam—let’s retire to the supply room and hump. It had been so long since I had humped anyone. Or anywhere. I shoved more mmmmm-yummy potato ball into my mouth and almost didn’t get it on my festive sweater, the beautiful red one I’d spent way too much money on in the hopes of getting Sam to notice me.

He noticed now. "You have a blob of—"

Then he grabbed my boob.

"Jesus, I’m sorry!" His eyes became saucers, and he jerked his hand back, leaving my skin scorched and feverish. "There’s a bunch of potato on your…sweater. Let’s, um, let’s go to the kitchen. There’s a sink."

My stomach dropped three storeys—I’d just accidentally got to second base in public. He grabbed my arm, and we hurried past a maze of monochrome cubes draped in twinkle lights to the break room. This was the most exciting event in the office since they had switched the carpeting from taupe to tan.

Sam stood there while I applied a paper towel to my tit. Actually, he didn’t merely stand there—he stared, turned away, blinked and stared again. I couldn’t blame the guy. The girls were rather ravishing—perky from the cold water, encased in a formidable push-up bra, eager for more inappropriate fondling.

"I’m sorry about…that." He slumped and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"It’s okay. It happens." I smiled, brimming with reassurance.

The tension finally broke when he snickered. "It does? How often does it happen? You should avoid potato balls."

"And accountants."

We laughed at each other. For once I wasn’t laughing by myself.

* * * 


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