Title: The Girl He Loves
Author: Roya Carmen
Genre: Psychological Suspense Romance
Release Date: November 21, 2019
Mischa Lombardi is odd. Pragmatic. Perfectionist. Neurotic. Diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder at the age of eleven, she can’t remember being any other way.
Thankfully, with the assistance of medication and therapy, her life is well under control. Some might even say it’s perfect: a beautiful husband, her sons Trevor and Tristan, a fabulous condo, work she enjoys and great friends.
Yet she’s still extremely fragile. It’s the reason she always guards her emotions very carefully. And unfortunately, nothing can help her when, by chance, she discovers her husband’s secret — Ava, a beautiful young woman. She was so sure she knew her husband, but now she desperately needs to uncover the truth.
It’s no surprise when she becomes obsessed with Ava, with every trivial detail of her life; her friends, her beautiful mother, and most of all, her gentle and sweet father. Driven not only by curiosity and obsession, but also by jealousy and lust, she heads down a turbulent path as she sets out to uncover everything about her husband’s secret life and all the mysterious people in it.
“Gritty, angsty...all of the things I love about a Roya Carmen book” - Goodreads Review
“The saying "A picture is worth a thousand words" holds true in this story.” - Goodreads Review
“Loved this story so much.” - The Smutbrarians
When I glance up from my phone, my heart skips a beat. I see her, walking down the pathway, next to a gangly young man. They’re both smiling widely. She’s as beautiful in real life — so young and sweet.
I’m not sure what propels me to get to my feet and follow them down the sidewalk. My pulse races, my hands feel clammy, and I struggle for air. There are quite a few people walking around thankfully, so I don’t feel too conspicuous.
There’s something quite exciting, quite delicious about being so close to her, so close I could reach out and touch her. So close, I can see the silkiness of her long hair, the intricate crochet stitching of her soft long-sleeved pink top, the frayed edges of her jean pockets, the roundness of her perfect little rear. I can even hear their conversation — they’re talking about one of their profs. Apparently, he’s so basic.
I’m not sure what that means. Boring perhaps?
The crowd has dispersed, and I now feel vulnerable. Do I keep going? Or do I just stop walking, and let them fade away. How far will I take it? She’s bound to notice me eventually. The boy tells her that she’s smart, that she should have more confidence in herself.
“Oh, Vince, you always say that,” she says, laughing.
“Because it’s true.”
At the moment, there’s no chance of her noticing me — she’s too immersed in her conversation. Bursts of laughter mixed with idle chit-chat. Joking around. She strikes me as a typical young woman. Does Vince know what she’s really like? Does he know about the older married high school teacher? Are they close enough for her to share all her secrets?
He asks her for her notes, and she suddenly jerks to a stop. He takes a few steps before he realizes that she’s bent down to reach into her backpack. He spots me as he turns, and shoots me a quizzical look, almost as if he knows what I’m up to. I stop breathing for a second, and I’m sure he sees the unmistakable panic and guilt in my eyes. He studies me for a beat, and I quickly scurry past the both of them, my heart pounding frantically.
I practically run away, careful not to appear rushed. I’m breathless, and struggling to walk straight. I have no clue where I’m heading but as soon as I hit the next intersection, I veer right, and as soon as they’re out of sight, I breathe again.
I make another right onto a quiet residential street, and I stop and lean against a light post. What have I achieved? Some might say I’ve achieved absolutely nothing. But for me, a compulsion was satisfied, an itch was scratched. I’ve seen her in the flesh, like I so desperately wanted to.
I’m not sure what propels me to get to my feet and follow them down the sidewalk. My pulse races, my hands feel clammy, and I struggle for air. There are quite a few people walking around thankfully, so I don’t feel too conspicuous.
There’s something quite exciting, quite delicious about being so close to her, so close I could reach out and touch her. So close, I can see the silkiness of her long hair, the intricate crochet stitching of her soft long-sleeved pink top, the frayed edges of her jean pockets, the roundness of her perfect little rear. I can even hear their conversation — they’re talking about one of their profs. Apparently, he’s so basic.
I’m not sure what that means. Boring perhaps?
The crowd has dispersed, and I now feel vulnerable. Do I keep going? Or do I just stop walking, and let them fade away. How far will I take it? She’s bound to notice me eventually. The boy tells her that she’s smart, that she should have more confidence in herself.
“Oh, Vince, you always say that,” she says, laughing.
“Because it’s true.”
At the moment, there’s no chance of her noticing me — she’s too immersed in her conversation. Bursts of laughter mixed with idle chit-chat. Joking around. She strikes me as a typical young woman. Does Vince know what she’s really like? Does he know about the older married high school teacher? Are they close enough for her to share all her secrets?
He asks her for her notes, and she suddenly jerks to a stop. He takes a few steps before he realizes that she’s bent down to reach into her backpack. He spots me as he turns, and shoots me a quizzical look, almost as if he knows what I’m up to. I stop breathing for a second, and I’m sure he sees the unmistakable panic and guilt in my eyes. He studies me for a beat, and I quickly scurry past the both of them, my heart pounding frantically.
I practically run away, careful not to appear rushed. I’m breathless, and struggling to walk straight. I have no clue where I’m heading but as soon as I hit the next intersection, I veer right, and as soon as they’re out of sight, I breathe again.
I make another right onto a quiet residential street, and I stop and lean against a light post. What have I achieved? Some might say I’ve achieved absolutely nothing. But for me, a compulsion was satisfied, an itch was scratched. I’ve seen her in the flesh, like I so desperately wanted to.
Roya Carmen is a busy mom, romance writer, designer, bookworm, chocoholic, and hopeless romantic. There’s nothing she enjoys more than making up stories about love, and sharing them with her readers.
HOSTED BY:
No comments:
Post a Comment