When the attention-avoiding daughter of a celebrity couple and a Texas cowboy college student with his own troubles fall hard for each other, they must face their truths together or be torn apart by a media storm.
Whiskey on Our Shoes
by Tonya Preece
Genre: Contemporary New Adult Romance
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Tonya Preece writes romance and contemporary young adult fiction and incorporates music into all her books in one way or another. She lives near Austin, TX where she’s a small business manager for a forensic engineering firm. She and her husband enjoy traveling, live music, wine, and spoiling their fur babies.
As an active SCBWI member since 2015, Tonya has volunteered for several conferences and has served as a critique group facilitator. She joined the Writer’s League of Texas and The Author’s Guild in 2021. She served as the 2022 WriteOnCon Financial Administrator and Critique Boutique Coordinator.
Tonya’s 2022 debut, Whiskey on Our Shoes, was selected for the 2019 #WriteMentor program. One of her YA novels, CLOSER TO THE FLAME, earned her a 2020 scholarship/mentorship with Austin SCBWI and was a finalist at the 2018 Houston SCBWI conference.
An avid consumer of written stories, Tonya reads and/or listens to an average of 75 books a year. Some of her favorite YA authors include Jeff Zentner, Julie Buxbaum, Sarah Dessen, and Robin Benway. In adult romance – Kate Clayborn, Christina Lauren, Helena Hunting, Emily Henry, and Abby Jimenez. Series she tries to keep up to date on: Rhys Bowen’s Royal Spyness and Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum. Recent mainstream faves are Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens and Daisy Jones & the Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid.
Five Fun Facts about Tonya that aren’t reading or writing related:
1. She volunteers at a local food pantry, where she’s enjoyed serving weekly since 2017.
2. Her travel bucket list includes Italy, Ireland, and Bora Bora. Australia would be awesome, too!
3. She loves ziplining, indoor skydiving, and rollercoasters.
4. She’s a fan of bands like With Confidence, Broadside, All Time Low, State Champs, Sleeping with Sirens, and As It Is.
5. 5. In her free time, she can be found indulging a jigsaw puzzle habit and/or binging shows like Outer Banks, Never Have I Ever, Downton Abbey, Bridgerton, Good Girls, Veronica Mars, and iZombie.
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Eva’s POV, Ch. 15, pp. 54-56
Checking that the wig hides all my blonde hair, I ask Mom, “Who am I today?”
Her head whips around, and she gasps. “I almost forgot. How about…Bella?”
“Works for me.” I slide on a pair of oversized sunglasses, and she puts on a floppy, wide-brimmed hat.
She’s told me before how being spotted in public doesn’t concern her unless there’s a chance of me getting drawn into the attention. On the few occasions I’ve shown up in snapshots with the celebs in our family, I looked slightly different each time, thanks to various disguises. And in those rare photos, I’m in the background, facing away from the camera.
Managers and salespeople create a subtle barrier between us and other shoppers, but my goal is to be invisible to them as well. Not so easy when they give us the royal treatment behind the scenes. I trust they won’t take pictures or video, but a lot of my energy’s spent pretending to be someone else. I’m rusty at avoiding curious stares. It’s more exhausting than I remembered.
As Mom browses from display to display, I find it easier to stay engrossed in a game on my phone. Staring at the screen, my face is shielded by the tresses of the brunette wig.
“Earth to Bella.” Mom waves a hand in front of my eyes. “Isn’t it cute?”
I glance at the summer dress she’s holding. “Yeah, it’s nice,” I say, and my gaze falls right back to my phone. She must not notice my lack of excitement and moves on to another dress, chattering non-stop.
“Ooh, Bella, check this out.” “Hey, Bella, I could see you in this.” “Bella, do you like this dress?” She won’t stop, and I have an absurd sense of not being me anymore. How the hell should I know what Bella likes?
The next time Mom calls me Bella, I wince and squeeze my eyes shut.
“Are you okay?” Mom touches my arm.
“I’m not feeling well.” I press my fingers to my temples.
She guides me into a curtained dressing room. “Try not to puke or faint or anything.” She lingers by the entry, eying me warily. “Are you good now?”
“I will be. You should keep shopping. I just need a minute.” I sit on a bench in the small space.
“Maybe you’re dehydrated. I’ll have someone bring you a drink.”
I close my eyes and lean on the wall, craving the freedom I’ve enjoyed without Mom.
My heart sinks, though. I love Mom, and I’ve missed her, but is this what Lor means when he talks about me finding independence?
“Excuse me, miss, are you Bella?” someone says.
I open the curtain. There’s a lady, mid-twenties, offering me a bottle of water. Grateful, I take it, and she has an eager, starstruck look in her eyes.
“It must be cool to hang out with Sloane Silver, huh? How do you know her?”
“She’s a friend of my mom’s.” I take a long, cold drink.
“Wow, where’re you from?”
Cornered, I mutter the first thing to pop into my head. “I’m from Budapest.”
Her eyebrows rise, probably from disbelief since I don’t have an accent.
Oops. I stand. Time to leave.
The lady moves aside, and Mom’s standing there, the color drained from her face. She stares in my direction, her eyes glazed over.
I approach her. “What’s wrong?”
She startles and snaps out of whatever made her look like she’d seen a ghost. “Oh, nothing.” Her gaze flits to the lady. “We’re good here. Thanks for your help.”
The lady makes herself scarce as Mom shoos me back into the dressing room and closes the curtain.
“Eva, what made you think of…that place?” Mom whispers.
“What place? Oh, Budapest?” I shrug. “It came to mind because of the postcard. The one in Lor’s living room.” I note the clenching of her jaw as she turns away. “Does the postcard mean something? When I asked Lor, he wouldn’t say.”
“If he didn’t tell you, it must be private.” She faces me again, with a tight smile. “You’ve hardly shopped for yourself today, and I want to buy you something. Try these on.” She hangs the dresses she’s holding on a hook in the dressing room.
I absentmindedly flip through them, waiting for her to leave before I strip.
“Ev—Bella,” she whispers. “Why are you checking price tags?”
I shrug. “I guess it helps me decide if something’s worth it or not.”
“Worth it?” She eyes me, head to toe, like I’m a stranger. And I do feel strange. Maybe she doesn’t know me anymore. Do I even know myself?
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I love Cowboys! Thank you for posting about Whiskey on Our Shoes, this story is a definite must read for me
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