About Private Property
Written by Audra Beagle and Chloe West
108 pages / 35833 words
ISBN: 978-1-60370-786-2, 1-60370-786-7
Available file types - html, lit, pdf, prc, Sony-optimized pdf, epub
Sam Kostas is a popular mystery writer with a bad case of writer’s block. He’s recently moved to a large Victorian house on the coast of Newport, Rhode Island hoping to gain inspiration for his next novel. However, his writer’s block seems worse than ever, until a strange young man by the name of Will Adler comes into his life with cakes and craziness, and insists that Sam’s house belongs to him. It’s all-out war between the two until they both realize that they actually just might like each other. Maybe. Even as they fall in love, the battle for the house is on until the very end.
Review
Kiernan Kelly, author of Outland, writes: Sam is a mystery writer who’s dealing with a bad case of writer’s block when he moves into his newly purchased house on the shore in Newport. He’s a loner, older, cranky, and as eccentric as they come.
Enter Will, a young man with a talent for baked goods, and an eccentric streak all of his own that seems to make a mockery of Sam’s.
It’s hatred at first sight for Sam and Will, but as they battle over ownership of the house in Newport, the saucy baker begins to chip away at the walls surrounding the curmudgeonly writer’s heart.
In this extremely fun offering from Audra Beagle and Chloe West, I found a pair of characters I instantly fell in love with. Sam is crusty, sarcastic, set-in-his-ways, and a joy to read. Will is younger, sweeter, but with a streak of stubbornness that made me smile.
I recommend this story wholeheartedly for anyone who enjoys witty banter, warm characters, and cake, or any combination of the three!
Sample
Sam shut the mailbox with a little more force than he had intended and looked down at the letter in his hand. Not another one.
Maybe it was his frustration with writing, maybe it was because no one sent him anything in the mail, but the letter in his hand burned.
Sam jogged down the little gravel road to his newly purchased Victorian home. When he'd signed the rather large check for the secluded property in Newport, he thought it would be the perfect place to get his creative juices flowing again. New York City had become oppressive and stifling. He’d needed a change of scenery. The ocean, the cliffs, the fresh sea air. Newport was the perfect place to churn out another bland mystery novel that would sell like hotcakes.
It had, in fact, been over a year since he'd been able to write more than a paragraph of original fiction. Hell, Sam found that lately he couldn't even write letters. He had writer's block and even the perfect atmosphere wasn't going to help. Sam was doomed, and his publisher was going to eat him alive.
He couldn’t be burned out at twenty-four. It seemed impossible, yet Sam felt it. Completely burned out.
Sam slammed the door behind him and stomped up the winding staircase to his office. It was on the third floor of the house, just below the attic, and the view was nothing if not inspiring. The big, stained glass window overlooked the cliffs down to the sea, and in the distance, a tall, white lighthouse flashed in the growing dusk.
It inspired Sam to throw himself into the sea.
He opened the drawer to his desk, sparing a passing glance at his untouched black typewriter, and shoved the letter in with the other three. The letters weren't addressed to him, so he hadn't read them. They were addressed to the previous owner of the house, a woman Sam hadn't met, as he'd purchased the house through a realtor.
He didn't know why he kept the letters. Maybe he'd send them to her someday? Maybe he was a masochist and liked being reminded of the fact that he was friendless and alone in this little town of Newport.
A loud rap on the door downstairs broke Sam out of his self loathing. Okay, so he wasn't entirely alone. His good friend Grant lived down the shore in a grand mansion with a private beach and dock. Sam’s three story Victorian house, though weathered by the salty sea air, was no shack. However, it paled in comparison to Grant’s less-than-humble abode.
They’d met through Sam’s agent and had become fast friends. Grant specialized in narrating for audio books, and though it was not what he was known for (he was famous for his voice work in commercials), it was how he made the bulk of his income. Grant had recorded the last three of Sam’s best-selling mystery novels and somehow was more famous and well off than Sam.
And that had to be Grant at the door. Who else would be harassing him after dark?
Sam almost ignored the incessant pounding, but gave in and trudged down the stairs. He threw open the heavy, wooden door without even peeking out the window to check for crazy fans first. Maybe in New York he'd had a few middle-aged women hanging around his apartment, but here no one knew who he was, even if he had been on the New York Time's Best Seller list three years in a row.
He looked up and was about to make a scathing comment to his old friend when he realized it wasn't Grant standing on his doorstep at all.