Autore: Dee De Tarsio
Genere: Adult romance
Trama: Life is a soap opera, especially for Elle Miller, who is a TV producer. (Ellen dropped the “n” in her name in hopes of finding a better ending for herself.) When her laptop crashes, she borrows her dead dad’s computer and gets way more than she bargained for.
As Elle tries to save her career with a storyline featuring a trip through Atlantis, she takes a trip to the Emmys, and finds herself in the middle of a romance between a real doctor and a hunk who just plays one on TV. Friends, family, and clues from “the other side” all help Elle figure out the difference between living the good life... and living a good life.
Trama: Life is a soap opera, especially for Elle Miller, who is a TV producer. (Ellen dropped the “n” in her name in hopes of finding a better ending for herself.) When her laptop crashes, she borrows her dead dad’s computer and gets way more than she bargained for.
As Elle tries to save her career with a storyline featuring a trip through Atlantis, she takes a trip to the Emmys, and finds herself in the middle of a romance between a real doctor and a hunk who just plays one on TV. Friends, family, and clues from “the other side” all help Elle figure out the difference between living the good life... and living a good life.
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ESTRATTI
#1
I thought “Elle” sounded so much more Californian than the pigtails-with-freckles name of “Ellen.” Growing up I had always hated my plain-Jane name and wished I had gotten the bright idea much sooner, say in the sixth grade. I could still hear the scars being carved. “Ellen, shuck the corn. Ellen, your ground bologna sandwich is ready. Ellen, it’s time for church.” My parents didn’t get it. My dad had never remembered to call me by my new, sophisticated label. I missed my dad and the way he called me Ellen.
#2
There were one or two studio computers networked together, but one was missing a mouse and the other had a yellowed monitor that you would have sworn smoked three packs of cigarettes a day and looked like you could play Pong on it. (Look it up. I would, but I don’t have a computer, remember?) Just like in the old-timey days of Don Draper, when geniuses needed their favorite pen and ice-clinking, crystal-glassed drinks, I needed my laptop. Call me superstitious, but I did my best work that way. Besides, Information Technology was a non-existent department at the studio, since management seemed to think “IT” stood for sex, and therefore wasn’t going to pay for it when they could screw everybody for free. I had to figure this out.
#3
I laughed. Giggled, actually. I didn’t know why I felt so happy. A low-
pitched voice hummed between the beeps of some kind of monitor. Was somebody playing with the hospital props again? The voice got louder.
“I’m Quez Shirrock. Can you hear me?” Uh huh, I thought, still smiling.
And I’m Betty Rubble. Quez Shirrock. Liam has really lost it. That is the worst soap opera name I have ever heard.
“Elle. Wake up.” The low, soothing sound of that voice vibrated to my very heart as I felt a hand touch my left breast. Yikes! Who’s feeling me up? My eyes flew open. What in the world?
Forget The Flintstones. It was Jon Snow. From Game of Thrones.
Without the accent and animal pelts. But with the same vulnerable, brooding, coal-black eyes. An odd, not unpleasant mix of peanut butter and cinnamon blew into my nostrils. He peered into my eyes.
“I know nothing, Jon Snow.” I must have said that aloud because his immobile, almost stern features, shifted as the corners of his mouth turned up. What was going on here? I turned my head. Nope, I wasn’t in the studio.
“You hit your head and fainted,” he said. I couldn’t think about him as Quez Shirrock, I was afraid I’d laugh in his face. “Do you remember anything?” he asked.
I shook my head no.
“They brought you up here, to Sharp Memorial Hospital. I’m a neurologist.” Of course you are. Quez Shirrock. Why couldn’t I keep the smile off my face?
I thought “Elle” sounded so much more Californian than the pigtails-with-freckles name of “Ellen.” Growing up I had always hated my plain-Jane name and wished I had gotten the bright idea much sooner, say in the sixth grade. I could still hear the scars being carved. “Ellen, shuck the corn. Ellen, your ground bologna sandwich is ready. Ellen, it’s time for church.” My parents didn’t get it. My dad had never remembered to call me by my new, sophisticated label. I missed my dad and the way he called me Ellen.
#2
There were one or two studio computers networked together, but one was missing a mouse and the other had a yellowed monitor that you would have sworn smoked three packs of cigarettes a day and looked like you could play Pong on it. (Look it up. I would, but I don’t have a computer, remember?) Just like in the old-timey days of Don Draper, when geniuses needed their favorite pen and ice-clinking, crystal-glassed drinks, I needed my laptop. Call me superstitious, but I did my best work that way. Besides, Information Technology was a non-existent department at the studio, since management seemed to think “IT” stood for sex, and therefore wasn’t going to pay for it when they could screw everybody for free. I had to figure this out.
#3
I laughed. Giggled, actually. I didn’t know why I felt so happy. A low-
pitched voice hummed between the beeps of some kind of monitor. Was somebody playing with the hospital props again? The voice got louder.
“I’m Quez Shirrock. Can you hear me?” Uh huh, I thought, still smiling.
And I’m Betty Rubble. Quez Shirrock. Liam has really lost it. That is the worst soap opera name I have ever heard.
“Elle. Wake up.” The low, soothing sound of that voice vibrated to my very heart as I felt a hand touch my left breast. Yikes! Who’s feeling me up? My eyes flew open. What in the world?
Forget The Flintstones. It was Jon Snow. From Game of Thrones.
Without the accent and animal pelts. But with the same vulnerable, brooding, coal-black eyes. An odd, not unpleasant mix of peanut butter and cinnamon blew into my nostrils. He peered into my eyes.
“I know nothing, Jon Snow.” I must have said that aloud because his immobile, almost stern features, shifted as the corners of his mouth turned up. What was going on here? I turned my head. Nope, I wasn’t in the studio.
“You hit your head and fainted,” he said. I couldn’t think about him as Quez Shirrock, I was afraid I’d laugh in his face. “Do you remember anything?” he asked.
I shook my head no.
“They brought you up here, to Sharp Memorial Hospital. I’m a neurologist.” Of course you are. Quez Shirrock. Why couldn’t I keep the smile off my face?
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