Today I want to introduce you to J.R. Richardson and her new release “CURSED BE THE WICKED.” This is a paranormal romance and sounds exciting. Come join me in a warm welcome. What a lovely cover.
Synopsis : Cooper Shaw lives his life under a pen name and enjoys the anonymity it provides during his journeys across the globe as a seasoned writer for a travel magazine. When his job lands him inhis hometown of Salem, Massachusetts to cover the famous Festival of the Dead, he soon realizes that he can’t stay invisible forever as he faces ghosts from a past he’s been trying to forget ever since he left.The city holds nothing but bad memories for Coop until he meets a quirky young woman with anold soul and curious insights by the name of Finnley Pierce. While she acts as his tour guide through a town he thought he knew, Finn helps him unearth the truth of his childhood and might even begin to open up his heart.By unraveling the mystery of his father’s murder, Coop may finally accept who he is, where he came from, and perhaps even realize what he wants for his future.
“Raymond, I’m tired. I don’t have time for this to-”
The woman standing behind the front desk spins to see, not Raymond, whoever the hell that is, but me. As she comes to the realization that I’m not who she thinks I am, I get the feeling she still thinks I’m someone as she finishes her sentence.
Her long, brown hair looks as though it’s trying to escape the ponytail she’s pulled it into. Her eyes are dark, fierce even. It feels like she’s peering straight into my soul, or piercing it, as they stare across the front entry way toward me.
Her mouth falls open slightly as her eyes narrow, and now I’m getting the impression she’s trying to place me or, maybe she already has placed me.
She looks away when her eyes catch up with mine and I approach with caution. As she begins to type away at the keyboard in front of her, I try to side step the awkwardness beginning to form by clearing my throat.
“I know who you are,” she cuts me off, sharply.
“You do?” I ask. Blood begins to rush through me. I clench my jaw, waiting for the judgmental comments to arrive.
Her eyes soften then, and she simply nods with a thin line forming across her lips.
She studies me, then twists her mouth up as though she’s disappointed of all things.
I get it. Just about half the town thought I was the one that killed my father, even after my mother confessed,
“Seems like every other Tom, Dick, and Harry in the media’s shown up already. You may as well join ‘em,” she says, and I’m surprised yet relieved at her words. In a way.
“You think I’m…?”
“You’ve got paparazzi written all over you.”
She arches an eyebrow.
I don’t mean to but I laugh out loud from the sheer relief that she has no idea who I am. I also feel the need to defend myself because I’m not a fan of being lumped in with the paps.
“The funeral’s not for another week, ya know,” she informs me, going back to her computer.
“You’re mistaken,” I insist, even though she’s right. I am media. Technically.
“Really,” she replies, like she’s not quite buying it. So I push harder. I’m very convincing when I want to be.
“Yes. Really,” I tell her and now she’s back to eying me and we’re staring each other down for a minute or two. I’m convinced she’s going to fight me on this but in the end, she bites her tongue and goes back to banging away on the keyboard.
“In town for the festival then?” she asks, changing the subject. Like whatever just happened didn’t happen at all, which both intrigues and irritates me at the same time.
I watch her a bit while she busies herself with the computer. The way she tucks some stray hairs behind her ear and then lets her fingers graze her neck before she goes back to typing. The easy way her fingers fly across the keyboard. And how she is most definitely avoiding eye contact with me for some reason.
I spot her name tag. She doesn’t look familiar to me but you never know.
Betsy, Betsy, Betsy.
I can’t think of a single Betsy I knew growing up.
She looks up and her eyes narrow again. It’s only now that I’m aware of the fact that I’ve been glaring at her for the past couple of minutes without saying a word. I clear my throat and forget to speak when she licks her lips and then takes the bottom one in between her teeth.
I am officially an ape.
She lets it go.
I stare some more.
“So . . . ?”
“What?” I snap, a tad more abrasive than I intend.
“Do you have a reservation?” she asks, trying to be polite without letting on that she most likely thinks I’m the slowest dolt on the planet.
Maybe I am crazy.
Maybe it runs in the family.
I gather my senses and shake off the odd feeling of vertigo I’m having.
“No,” is all I give her. Then I drop my bags and rest my elbows against the counter. My eyes close as I rub my temples, anxiously waiting to hear her tell me they’re all booked up, forcing me to drive those extra miles after all.
I mean, what would it take? Ten, twenty minutes tops to get there?
My lids open to see her staring at me with curled eyebrows and a worried look in her eyes. They look so familiar to me again.
I just can’t…
“Are you drunk?” She asks. It takes me aback.
“Because I’m not in the mood for-”
“I’m not drunk,” I assure her, wishing I was. As she eyes me carefully once again, I feel her staring straight through me.
A writer of stories and lover of life.
Jo grew up in Maryland with four siblings, three parents and an endless number of cousins within the vicinity. Today she lives in Florida with her two girls and a husband that shares her same sense of humor and basic take on life as we know it.
Life is too short to put dreams on the back burner.
She’s always loved writing, and always enjoys a good mystery, so in 2012, Jo wrote a novel that was picked up by the good people at Soul Mate Publishing.
YOU CAN FINE J.R. RICHARDSON AT: