Wednesday, December 19, 2018

10 Silly Questions with Author PD Singer



Thrilled to have fellow Dreamspinner Press author PD Singer game to answer my rude questions on the blog today and to tell us all about her new book, Concierge Service....  


10 SILLY QUESTIONS WITH PD SINGER & RICK R. REED


RR: If you could invite any famous person, dead or alive, for dinner, what would you eat?
PS: Mmm, a lovely roasted beef tenderloin with Chantilly potatoes, asparagus, and Napoleons for dessert. I would invite Albert Einstein to come share it with me, and ask him to bring his violin along so we could play duets after dinner.

RR: Who do you think you are?
PS: Secure Pam says, “I’m a kickass author, professional, and mom with an assortment of weird skills. Let’s go scuba diving!” Insecure Pam is hiding under the table saying, “Who, me?” Secure Pam drags her out to give hugs.

RR: What’s your problem?
PS: I lost my roundtuit. Can’t do a thing until I get a roundtuit.

RR: If you could have one wish, would you give it to me?
PS: Can I wish for wishes for everyone? You get a wish, and you get a wish, and everyone gets a wish!

RR: Where you at?
PS: Most of me is in Denver. But I don’t know where my head’s at. Darned head’s all over the place.

RR: If you had to choose only one vice, what would it be?
PS: The big one on the workbe—Oh. Damn homonyms. Wine. Yeah, let’s drink wine.

RR: What’s your favorite brand of cereal?
PS:  Honey Bunches of Oats. Kinda healthy, mostly sugar bomb.

RR: When you wake up in the morning, what celebrity do you most resemble?
PS: Charlize Theron. And then I put on my glasses.

RR: Do you know your ass from a hole in the ground? And if so, how do you tell the difference?
PS: Yes, I do. Just look for the W. Also, only the burrow has small animals living in it.

RR: Do you have anything you’d like to plug?
PS: How about my newest release, Concierge Service?

Who is PD Singer?
P.D. Singer lives in Colorado with her slightly bemused husband, one proto-adult, and thirteen pounds of cats. She’s a big believer in research, first-hand if possible, so the reader can be quite certain Pam has skied down a mountain face-first, been stepped on by rodeo horses, acquired a potato burn or two, and will never, ever, write a novel that includes sky-diving.

When not writing, playing her fiddle, or skiing, she can be found with a book in hand.

BLURB for CONCIERGE SERVICE
Joshua Hannes, the concierge of the Vivaldi Central Park Hotel prides himself on fulfilling every impossible request. Tickets to a sold-out show? A purple dye job for a purse dog? A last-minute table at a premier hotspot? No problem.

But the penthouse guest wants what?

Self-made billionaire Craig Ridley’s in New York on business, but at the end of the day, he wants to relax with someone interesting. The concierge should be able to supply a friendly face. Just for a little conversation. Dinner and a card game. Not sex with a man he doesn’t know or respect.

Craig didn’t expect the concierge to personally volunteer to be a rental friend, and he really didn’t expect to get attached. How can a paid service ever turn real?

A billion reasons why they shouldn’t be together. A billion and one reasons why they should.

BUY
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Apple

EXCERPT
The rap at the door slightly after eleven jerked Craig away from the e-book he was reading with indifferent attention; if this was a thriller, he wasn’t nearly as thrilled by the text as he was by the interruption.

Perhaps he should have peeked through the peephole, but anyone who knocked on this door had to use the passcard in the elevator, soooo… He opened the door.

Very scenic.

The vision he’d seen coming out of the suite earlier greeted him. Brown eyes under full brows, a perfectly straight nose over a sunny smile, wide shoulders dressed in a decent suit—the same label as the one Craig had treated himself to when he’d sold his first company.

He jerked his gaze back to his visitor’s face—a laser dissection of the visitor’s charms was just not okay. Not when Craig made it abundantly clear he wanted nothing but company. The guy was worth looking at—and an unknown quantity as to what kind of person he’d prove to be.

Ten seconds of admiration for the view. Would this stranger last longer once words started coming out of his mouth?

“I’m Joshua Hannes. You rang?” The smile faltered for a scant second.

Craig found his voice and the memory of why he needed it. “I’m Craig Ridley.” Oh, that was stupid, of course rent-a-friend would know that, but… “Didn’t I see you earlier?”

“You did—I arranged your dinner. Now I’m back. If that’s okay.” Joshua remained in the doorway, a bag dangling from his fingertips.

Oh, right, Craig was keeping him standing. He ushered his guest in. “Hope you brought the Scrabble board, or that there’s one tucked away in some yet to be explored corner here.”

“I don’t think so, but I found us a deck of cards. We could play gin rummy, or war, or go fish.” Joshua pulled the sealed deck from his bag.

“Definitely more social than watching a movie.” Craig slit the cellophane wrapper to shake out the cards. “Or we could talk politics and possibly have our first fight, or compare weight lifting routines if we both lifted… Sorry, I didn’t even think about going downstairs to the gym to burn off some energy—I’m exhausted but my body still swears it’s two hours too early to go to bed.”

“No problem.” His visitor’s smile looked genuine. “I brought some Izzes.” He found coasters in the sideboard inlaid with enough exotic woods to endanger an entire rain forest, and two cut crystal tumblers, which he filled with ice from a minifridge disguised as more finely milled cabinetry. “Pomegranate, blackberry, or peach?”

Craig studied a maroon can, searching for symbols. Packaging had betrayed him before. “Is this kosher?”

Joshua examined his own can. “I don’t think it’s certified, but it’s vegan. Is that close enough?”

“Sure is. Blackberry sounds good.” He poured and offered to clink his glass against Joshua’s peach drink. “To new friends.”

Josh gave him that look again, a nanosecond of I don’t understand. “L’chaim?”

“La kayim,” Craig agreed. Whatever that meant. Probably New-Yorkese. That gravelly consonant might just be another regional thing. Craig sipped again, the fruity bubbles dancing on his tongue.

 Nice choice—Craig could appreciate the subtlety of not bringing wine or liquor. This wasn’t a date. What the hell did they do next? Cards, okay—another nice choice. Joshua hadn’t mentioned poker. Not when that could go lascivious. Not that Craig would mind in the least demanding shirts and trousers as forfeit.

Stop. That. One more stray thought and he’d have to adjust himself. The thin sweats he’d changed into for lounging wouldn’t hide a thing. Besides, where the hell had that thought come from? That was twice now. His interest hadn’t been piqued like this in years.

“So, gin rummy?” Craig offered.

“You’re on.” Joshua produced a pad and pen from a work of art generally shaped like a desk.

They sorted out their versions of the rules into mutual agreement, and Craig dealt out the cards. “We need some stakes.”

“Money?” Joshua stilled. “Or…?”

Damn it—even the small things worked against this rent-a-friend business. That “or” had to be exactly why his companion hadn’t mentioned poker. He hadn’t removed his suit coat, only pulling the knot of his tie away from his throat and undoing the top button.

Craig liked the lack of assumptions. What else could he like about Joshua? “Lose a round, answer a question, is that okay?” Damn it, that could go bad again fast—Joshua stopped sorting his hand. “Getting to know you kind of questions, nothing super-personal.”

“That works.” Joshua relaxed again. “Prepare to lose.”

“You can try,” Craig shot back, and took the top card from the stack.


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