Book Spotlight:  At First Sight by Sharon Michalove

Oxford, England 1993. An awkward American grad student runs into a gorgeous English undergrad with her bicycle. She’s embarrassed. He’s intrigued. They go their separate ways, but neither forgets.
 
Chicago, Illinois 2013. When Cress Taylor starts receiving anonymous threats, the successful novelist feels her world crashing down. Max Grant turns up at a book signing and wants to renew their fleeting acquaintance. Is the timing coincidental or suspicious? Should she fall into his arms or run like hell? Then the plagiarism accusations start.
 
A former spy now working for a global security company, Max Grant has always steered clear of relationships—until now. When he sees Cress in a TV interview, his curiosity ignites. Will the spark he felt twenty years ago burst into flame? Cress is a magnet he can’t resist. As threats escalate to physical danger, Max feels driven to protect Cress. They must learn to work together if they want to stop her nemesis and find their happy ending.

Buy Links: 

Barnes and Noble paperback link:
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/at-first-sight-sharon-d-michalove/1140047370?ean=9781736918708

EXCERPT:  

I step off the private elevator on the fortieth floor of One Financial Plaza in my new shoes. New shoes—ridiculous, bright-red, three-inch stilettos. What was I thinking? Oh yeah, Everest. Maybe the best restaurant in Chicago. One of the thirty or forty best in the U.S.
As I passed the store window, the shoes lured me in. My willpower collapsed like a condemned building. This is so not me. I’ve only had them a minute, and they’re cheese graters for feet.
A quick roll of my ankle on the slick granite floor reminds me why I don’t wear high heels. My arms splay and rotate like a windmill. The shopping bag that holds my serviceable flats and my small evening bag spins off my wrist. One shoe skids away. Crap, crap, crap.
The brown kraft-paper bag is a missile that hurtles toward a man on his way to the restaurant entrance. My mouth opens in soundless warning as it speeds toward an invisible bullseye.
Thunk. The bag bounces off his arm.
My evening clutch pops out, wide open. Damn that broken clasp. Change rings against hard wood and granite, spraying in all directions. I drop to my knees and crawl after the quarters and pennies. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him spin. A frown twists lush lips.
“You all right?” A foot in a brogue polished within an inch of its life rests a millimeter from my fingers as I reach for more coins. A shoe, a red shoe, is in his hand.
“Lost something?” He holds it out to me. His rich British accent sends a prickle down my spine. I tip my head up to give him a quick once-over.
A spark flashes through eyes that remind me of a walk on the beach in winter. A face bisected by a high-bridged aristocratic slash of a nose. My face tingles. The tips of my ears are warm. I grab the shoe, drop it on the floor, and hide my face in my hands.
“Fine. Sorry. I lost my balance and the bag escaped.” My fingers muffle the sound.
He starts to bend down. His hand brushes my ear.
Zap. I scoot backward.
He straightens up and shakes his hand. “Pins and needles.”
With effort, I wrench my focus back to the coins. My good luck charm, a Victorian black opal pendant I bought when my first book sold, slides back and forth against the sanded silk of my shabby chic little black dress. Streaks of fire reflect off the granite floor as it swings. I brush stray discs into the pile.
“Just trying to help.”
“I can manage. Thanks, though.”
A loud male voice calls out, “Hey, Max. Get in here.”
“Half a mo’.”
I wave him off. “Your friends want you.”
“But…”
“I’ve got this.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah. Go on.”
He straightens, turns, walks into the restaurant.
I stare at his back in the perfect gray suit. The color matches his eyes.
The heap of change winks at me. I slip on my shoe and pick them up so no one else falls. Little traitors.
Purse and shoe box stuffed back into the shopping bag, I stagger through the wood-framed doorway.
The tables are all full. I have a word with the maître d’ before he shows me to a center table where four people give me a standing ovation. Heat burns my cheeks. The other diners stare, some annoyed but more amused. In fact, complete strangers join in, clapping.
A group of men in elegant suits, ensconced at a round table positioned to enjoy the spectacular view, whistle loudly. My nose wrinkles. Over-aged frat boys.
With my unruly curls and my almost too-thin frame, all these people may wonder if I’m some D-list celeb. I look like a starved model, but the genes tell the story. I have the appetite of a hockey player after a game.
My best friend, Micki, leads the cheers. She is a statuesque platinum blonde, all curves, killing it in a red-sequined dress. My shoes would be perfect.
She glances toward my feet. “Nice shoes. New?”
“Yeah. Big mistake.”
“About time you started to wear grown-up shoes.”
We wear the same size. I’ll wrap them up for Christmas. One pair of fancy shoes, light wear. 

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