~*BLOG TOUR*~
Title: Country Lovers
Series: Compton Magna Series Book 2
Author: Fiona Walker
Genre: Women's Friendship Fiction
Pub. Date: November 14, 2019
Publisher & Hosted by: Head of Zeus
Add to #Goodreads TBR ↓
#BuyLinks ↓
Amazon US: https://amzn.to/33WKvyC
Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2ZcQhcs
Google Play: https://bit.ly/2N8sMik
Kobo: https://bit.ly/2H7IIgY
iBooks: https://apple.co/2KPKcgQ
Follow the Tour Here! ↓
Blurb ↓
They say you should never go back, but glamorous Ronnie Percy did just that, to the home she ran away from with her lover.
But not everyone is finding it easy to forgive and forget.
Daughter Pax, fighting for custody of her small son as her own marriage disintegrates, is furious to have to spend New Year's Eve waiting for some stranger her mother has invited to help run the family stud farm.
Even more annoyed is the staunchly loyal stud head groom, Lester. Does Ronnie think he's lost his touch with the horses? And anyway, who is this so-called Horsemaker, Luca O'Brien? Why does he seem to be running away from something? And what is the true story of his relationship with grey stallion Beck, once destined for the Olympics, now broken and unrideable, screaming his anger from the Compton Magna stables.
Passionate, sexy, gripping, laced with her trademark wisdom and humour, this is bestselling Fiona Walker at her dazzling best.
EXTRACT ↓
It was New Year’s Eve, and the Saddle Bags were hacking around the village of Compton Bagot. Bright winter sunshine had burned off the early frost, the quartet of long shadows mounted on giant black silhouette horses far slimmer than the four women felt.
Bridge Mazur’s shadow – a head shorter and a lot hairier than the others thanks to her helmet bobble and fake fur jacket – was bouncing around a lot as her grey Connemara pony Craic took exception to the flashing icicle lights around the eaves of the Old Post Office.
‘I swear I’m still sweating cream liqueur,’ Petra complained beside her.
‘I’ve got a muffin top – and bottom,’ panted Mo from behind.
‘Let’s step this up, shall we?’ Front rider Gill led them into a vigorous rising trot. ‘There’s half a stone of cheese, assorted nuts and Shiraz on each of these thighs.’
‘I raise you two loosened belt notches in honour of jakbłecznik and makowiec,’ Bridge said as Craic bunny-hopped forwards, vying to be in front.
‘Are those more of Aleš’s cousins?’ Petra’s unruly chestnut mare charged past them all.
‘Polish cakes,’ she explained, clinging onto the reins. ‘Make my old ma’s fifteens look like diet food. I’m amazed Ryanair didn’t charged me excess baggage on these Michelins.’ She patted her belly, ignoring the crabby looks from her fellow riders who knew she was the only one amongst them whose gym membership card got swiped regularly.
Yet for all her air of sharp hipster cool, Bridge liked sweet things: Haribos, mojitos, Gil Elvgren illustrations, sticky desserts and unicorns. Her husband Aleš – typically Polish, romantic and soppily sentimental – was very sweet when he wasn’t being oafish or sulky, their little Cotswold cottage with beams so low he bumped his head every day was sweet, their chubby-wristed toddler Flavia and curly-haired tot Zak were both sweet, and Bridge’s dappled grey pony was sugar-spun perfection. Wise enough to see that amongst her village riding friends, her comparative youth and inexperience was also sweet, Bridge was nonetheless a competitive soul who found failure a bitter pill to swallow.
Bridge had flown home two days earlier than planned, summoned back from Krakow to the Cotswolds by an eleventh-hour job interview. Abandoning Aleš and the children to see in Nowego Roku without her, she’d been almost as excited by the prospect of a rare chance to be Zen in their cluttered little cottage – and ride – as in her bid to return to work after her long baby sabbatical. As it turned out, the attempt at a career reboot was a waste of dry cleaning. Running the business administration side of a chain of Cotswold gastro pubs owned by a self-absorbed daytime telly star was always going to be a tall order for a straight-talking Belfast woman like Bridge. She didn’t suffer fools, especially matcha and redbean ones topped with black sesame Yatsuhashi.
‘How did the interview go?’ Mo asked eagerly, red-faced from the effort of kicking her coloured cob along to keep up with the others. ‘Is the Sous Vide as mad as they say?’
‘Madder,’ Bridge grumbled, thinking back to the breathless half hour spent following the glow of Suzy David’s famously bleached white crew cut and perpetually animated iPad around the village pub. ‘We could have done the whole thing on Skype. She needs common sense, not an HR consultant. D’you know she’s dropping the “Jugged” from “Hare” because she thinks it has unfortunate beer and boob connotations? I said, “Queen, it’s a country pub. Boozing and tit-ogling are still legal blood sports round here”.’
‘You didn’t!’
Author Bio ↓
Fiona Walker is the author of eighteen novels, from tales of flat-shares and clubbing in nineties London to today’s romping, rural romances set amid shires, spires and stiles. In a career spanning over two decades, she’s grown up alongside her readers, never losing her wickedly well-observed take on life, lust and the British in love. She lives in Warwickshire, sharing a slice of Shakespeare Country with her partner, their two daughters and a menagerie of animals. fionawalker.com @fionawalkeruk facebook.com/fiona.walker.16568
Author Links ↓
Twitter: @fionawalkeruk
Facebook: @fionawalkeruk
Instagram: @fionawalkeruk
Follow Head of Zeus ↓
Website: www.headofzeus.com
Twitter: @HoZ_Books
Facebook: @headofzeus
Instagram: @headofzeus
No comments:
Post a Comment