About the Book
Title: Just Like The Bronte Sisters
Author: Laurel Osterkamp
Genre: Women’s Fiction
Sisters Skylar and Jo
Beth adore skiing and they virtually share the same soul. After an accident, Jo
Beth flees to Brazil, leaving Skylar behind in Colorado to obsessively read the
Brontë sisters. While abroad, Jo Beth meets Mitch and her life takes some
unexpected turns, until tragedy leads free-spirited Mitch right into Skylar’s
empty arms. With their Heathcliff/Catherine romance in full swing, Skylar wants
to trust Mitch, but did he harm her sister? Loving Mitch could make Skylar lose
everything. Just Like the Brontë Sisters is an unconventional romantic
page-turner inspired by Daphne du Maurier’s My
Cousin Rachel, full of magical realism, literary references, a ghost, and
some healthy doses of suspense.
Author Bio
Laurel Osterkamp is a
Kindle Scout/award-winning author of women’s fiction and suspense. Her “day
job” is as at Columbia Heights High School, where she teaches creative writing,
college writing, and AP Lit. She resides in Minneapolis with her husband, two
chatty children, an overweight cat, a gecko, and a hissing cockroach (don’t
ask). Her other loves include chocolate, jogging, and
boots.
Links
Website: http://laurel.pmibooks.com/
Book Excerpts
Excerpt #1
Later that evening I
was still pumped. The dim lighting, soft classical music, and the glass of red
wine didn’t mellow me out. Gavin stood
over the stove, stirring his homemade marinara with a small wooden spoon and I
pretended not to notice him watching me as I sat on a stool by the island in
the kitchen, leafing through an Olympics brochure. I could feel the angry path
of a scratch that started at my cheekbone and extended down to my jaw, but I
refused to admit to any discomfort or pain. Doing so would invite in Gavin’s
judgment and concern, and I knew I’d be ingesting them enough tonight as it
was. They may as well have been ingredients in the spaghetti sauce.
I just talked as if
his ears were receptive. “Billy pretended to be mad, but I think he secretly
respected me. After practice today, he
talked like there’s no doubt I’d be in the Olympics. And seriously, being
suspended in the air like that… well, now I understand how people become
adrenaline junkies.”
“I’m surprised you
came out of the whole thing with only a scratch.”
“You sound like my
dad.”
“Then I’ll try to be
less protective,” Gavin gave me a twisty smile as he dipped the spoon into his
sauce and came toward me. “Here, try this. See if it needs more garlic.”
Halfheartedly, I let
him feed me a small amount. We made flat
eye contact and I shrugged. “I think you could go either way. I mean, it’s
fine, but is there such a thing as too much garlic?”
“I don’t know.” He
raised an eyebrow. “I guess that depends; are you letting me sleep in your bed
tonight?”
My eyes awkwardly
glanced away from him and settled back on my Olympics brochure, which had a
picture of a triumphant Bode Miller on the front.
“How long before
dinner?” I kept my voice intentionally light, like I hadn’t registered what
he’d just said. “I might go downstairs and stretch. I still have a leg cramp.”
“I can rub it for you
later.”
I leaned down and
massaged my calf muscle. “Thanks, but I still want to stretch.”
I glanced up to see
Gavin’s smile fade as he stepped away, walked back toward the stove, and spoke
with his back to me. “I think we should talk.” Ominous words if there ever were
any. I stood without going anywhere, as if our situation required formality.
“Did you hear what I said?” Gavin said. “About talking?”
His urgency, his
obvious desperation, propelled words out of my mouth before I could trap them.
“Can’t you just be the guy for once?”
He dropped his spoon
against the stove with a clang. “What? I’m not manly enough for you? I stay
home in the kitchen while you go flying off a mountain, like you’re trying to
be your sister or something...”
“Wait.” My defensiveness
was instant and hot, a rash underneath my skin. “I do something spontaneous,
something strong, and you think I’m just imitating Jo Beth?”
“Skiing past the
safety barricades and off a cliff isn’t strong, it’s reckless, and it’s not
like you.”
“Oh really? Maybe you
don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
“Maybe I don’t,” he
responded, “but it’s not for lack of trying.”
For a long, tense
moment, Gavin stared at me, as if willing me to answer. I shifted my weight and
looked toward the stairs to the basement, where I longed to escape from this
conversation.
“I don’t know what you
want from me,” I finally said.
“It’s simple,” he
replied. “I want you to be safe. I want you to stay here in Black Diamond, and
I want you to admit to me, to yourself, and to everyone else, that you and I
are actually a couple.”
My answer was
spineless. “I don’t know if I can do all that.”
Gavin’s face softened,
maybe because he was as unprepared for my sudden vulnerability as I was. “Which
part don’t you think you can do?”
I could barely squeak
out my response, for fear that it would hurt us both. “All of it.”
Gavin nodded as if
we’d just completed a business transaction. His shoulders rose and tensed as he
turned off the stove with a flick. “I’m going. Just boil some noodles, then
pour the sauce over them. It will taste good.”
I gave Gavin a
reticent smile meant to beg forgiveness, but he wouldn’t look at me. “No, no,”
I said. “Stay. Please, I want you to.”
He walked out of the
kitchen, past me, and towards the front door. I followed and watched as he
removed his wool coat from a hook and bundled up. My hands twitched from
wanting to touch him, to soothe his anger, but my fingers were too timid to
follow through.
He was clearly fuming.
“Be honest, Sky. You’d rather have the night to yourself.”
I pictured the evening
ahead of me, should he leave. It would start with a cold blast of air as he
opened the door, a slamming sound as he walked away, and then the emptiness and
guilt as I poured his marinara sauce into the sink, a blood red stream
trickling down the drain because I couldn’t stomach eating his dinner without
him. “That’s not true,” I said, trying
to keep my voice close. “I just don’t get why we have to turn into something
serious, into something that we’re not.”
“Because I’m tired of
being ‘that guy’—the one you kill time with when you have nothing else to do.”
I felt my face heat up
“I admit that I’m anxious to get out of here and into the Olympics. But my
restlessness isn’t about you. I’m just sick of waiting for something to happen.
You’re still my favorite person to spend time with.”
He paused, hand on the
doorknob. I could see how he wanted to leave, how he wanted to stay even
more. “Please don’t go,” I continued.
“That sauce you made is delicious, and you don’t have to add any more garlic.
That way our breath won’t stink too bad—you know, later on.”
I stepped in closer to him and put my hand on
the back of his neck. He relaxed under my touch.
“Fine, okay.” Gavin
whispered as he removed his jacket and we walked back into the kitchen
together.
Later, I was in the
bathroom, gargling with mouthwash. Green foam oozed down my chin and I used the
sleeve of my oversized ski team jersey, which I wore as a nightshirt, to wipe
it away. As I spat out the rest of the
mouthwash I met my own eyes in the mirror.
Was that hesitation or
fear lodged on my face?
I spat again, cupped
my hand over my mouth, and breathed in and out through my nose, checking for
signs of bad breath. There had been a lot of garlic in Gavin’s sauce. But I was
satisfied that I passed the halitosis test, so I fished in the drawer, digging
past hair brushes, tweezers, and a bottle of ADVIL to finally find an unopened
box of condoms, which I had previously shoved into the very back, out of sight.
Briefly I studied the
box that I bought months ago as a precautionary measure. I ripped open the blue
and gold packaging, which read Trojan Ultra-Thin Pleasure Pack, and clumsily
pulled one out. How could this shiny silver square, which looked like it
contained candy, make me so nervous?
Skiing off a cliff was nothing compared to this. I wrapped my fingers
around the bright foil package, making a fist, so I didn’t have to see evidence
of what I was about to do. I told myself that losing my virginity didn’t make
me Becky Sharp of Vanity Fair and that becoming a sexual person didn’t turn me
into an anti-heroine. I would instead be like Jo March, sleeping with her love,
the professor, for the first time, somewhere off in the dusky void that existed
away from well-lit pages underneath a reading lamp.
One more look in the
mirror; this time it was a look of resolve. I studied the scratch on my cheek,
made this afternoon by my ski pole when I’d landed in the snow, and lightly
traced it down my cheek. “Gavin, I’m in the mood for more adventure,” I
whispered to my reflection, rehearsing. I closed my eyes, shook my head in
disgust, and then faced my reflection once again.
“Let’s take a chance
tonight, okay?”
I gave my reflection
the most provocative expression I could muster. My shoulders moved up and down,
and then I walked out of the bathroom, determined to fly, not fall, off the
cliff that I was launching myself from.
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