Friday, May 9, 2014

Girl Lost by Nazarea Andrews Blog Tour

Girl Lost Synopsis:

Northern was supposed to be a fresh start—a place where people didn’t know who I was or how I had spent years in and out of mental institutes. People didn't know about my parents death or the island no one heard of. But when Peter sits next to me in lit class, I can’t stop the memories, and I don’t want to. He looks too much like the boy from the island, and despite my best intentions, coaxes my secrets from me.

He’s gorgeous, irresistible, a little mad, and completely lost—we are a pair of broken cogs in a world neither of us truly fits into. He is somehow gentle and fierce, heartbreaking in his devotion and savage in his defense.

When Belle, his best friend, shows up, pale and lovely and sick, Peter pulls away from me, a startling withdrawal. It’s a relationship that scares and confuses me. She is at times warm and friendly, and other times is violent and unpredictable.

Peter says that he wants me, but refuses to let himself get close. And there are secrets, surrounding both of us, that border on nightmares. As the memories close in, as Belle gets sicker and more violent, I’m torn between what is true and what I believe, and what this magical boy knows about my mysterious past.

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I get to class with four minutes to spare and ease into a seat with no one near it, toward the back of the room. Lit 101 should be a cake walk, but Grayson thought a few easy classes would keep my stress level down while letting me get to know other students.
Which means I probably shouldn't lurk by myself in the back, but I need a little bit of solitude. After years of it in Pembrooke, being constantly around people quickly grew tiresome. Even people I like.
I pull my text book out of my bag and flip through it idly as the students around me chatter and twitch, waiting for the professor.
The door swings open, admitting another wave of stifled air—and a student. There's a stir of interest. I don't bother to look away from my text.
When someone drops into the seat next to me, I twitch in irritation. The classroom is half empty—so why is he sitting next to me? I glare at my book, and there is a soft chuckle. The bastard, whoever he is, is laughing at me. I grit my teeth and determine to ignore him.
One faceless frat reject doesn't get to throw me off. Not today.
The professor walks in. I straighten, perking up over my notebook.
"Welcome to Lit 101!" The man, a balding man in his mid-fifties, gives us a warm smile. Everything about him is warm, from the frumpy sweater he wears to the way he talks. I relax in my seat, pleased. I will enjoy this class.
There's a cough at my side. I frown. Maybe. A light hand touches my elbow, and I jerk away, knocking my notebook and pen to the floor. Flushing, I reach for it.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Something about his voice is familiar, so I look at him, involuntarily.
A mischievous smirk. Bright green eyes, slightly slanted. A shock of red hair, covered by a dirty ball cap.
No. nonononononoNO! He’s not real. I swallow the surge of fear and turn to the professor, clenching my pen to hide the way my hand is shaking suddenly.
I can feel him watching me as the professor explains the class and course material. I barely hear it. All I can hear is the boy next to me, his breathing a constant presence, the rasp of his clothes as he shifts anxiously.
Is he real? Is this another delusion? Tears well in my eyes. I want to scream. For the first time, I let myself wonder if I wouldn’t be better at Pembrooke, locked away with all the other insane people.
It’s a mental institute, and it’s my home—and I desperately want it



Nazarea Andrews Bio:
Nazarea Andrews is an avid reader and tends to write the stories she wants to read. She loves chocolate and coffee almost as much as she loves books, but not quite as much as she loves her kids. She lives in south Georgia with her husband, daughters, and overgrown dog.
You can follow her on Facebook and Twitter.
Nazarea Andrews is agented, and all inquiries about rights should be directed to Michelle Johsnon of Inklings Literary.


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