Find more from this author on:
About the author:
Violet Howe enjoys writing romance with humor. She lives in Florida with her husband, who is her knight in shining armor, and their two handsome sons. They share their home with three adorable but spoiled dogs. When she’s not writing, Violet is usually watching movies, reading, or planning her next travel adventure. You can follow Violet’s ramblings on her blog, The Goddess Howe.
What inspired you to write your book?
I spent fifteen years in the wedding event industry, and the plethora of people and stories I encountered inspired me to write about the daily experiences of a wedding planner. I also wanted to create a character who refused to give up hope on the fairy tale, even as she struggled to accept the reality of love being work and the perfect one mate not existing.
Here is a short sample from the book:
“Here,” she said, gingerly holding out a pair of pantyhose between her French-manicured fingers. “Put these on.”
I swear for a minute I thought she meant for me to wear them. Then it dawned on me with sickened recognition that she wanted me to put the pantyhose on her. Ewww.
I stared at her a bit dumbfounded. I have been asked to do many things in this line of work. It’s definitely not as glamorous as the star-crossed wannabes imagine it. But never in the multitude of weddings have I ever been expected to put on another human being’s pantyhose. I thought surely she was joking. Surely, there was a bridesmaid left hiding in the room to do this. Surely, a meteor could come crashing into the hotel at that moment and create a hole to swallow me up.
As a girl with abundant thighs myself, it is my personal belief that support pantyhose are a relic left over from some medieval torture chamber. I have never been happier with the fashion world than when they decided pantyhose were out of style and we could all go bare-legged.
Putting on hose is an all-out swearing, sweating, pushing, pulling, aerobic activity that borders on assault. My granny used to say it’s like shoving two pounds of lard in a one-pound sack. To go through this torture against your own thighs within the privacy of your own room with the shades pulled down tight is one thing. But with someone else’s sweaty thighs? I was repulsed. It must have shown.