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She was always lying.
A gentle soul searching for sincerity in an insincere world.
A tale-spinner living in a maze of lies.
A story that unfolds when two hearts meet.
What is sincerity, what is freedom, what is true love?
If you’re in the market for contemporary romance that slides like ice cream down your throat, look no further. Novella DAISY FIELDS is a perfect long-weekend read, or a wonderfully romantic gift for your gentle—or crazy—sweetheart.
* * * * *
She’s twenty-two or thirty-nine. She’s from Texas or from Alaska. Her mother left her when she was little… or was she abducted? She’s stalked by a loan shark, but she’s never taken a loan.
When David decides to take the wacky, quirky Kalifornia Mooney as his housemate, he doesn’t expect his world to be turned upside down. As their mutual affection grows, so does the inexplicable chasm between the two friends. Kalifornia keeps her life shrouded in mystery, and no matter how much time they spend together, he doesn’t seem to know the first thing about her. Who is she? What is she so afraid of? Is she a refugee, as she claims to be, and if so, what is she running from?
Targeted Age Group:: 16-100
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
DAISY FIELDS is a contemporary romance novella that slides like ice cream down your throat! I started it because I wanted to try writing from the perspective of an HSP like me. David Nighthart is a soft-spoken, SLR-yielding hero whose perceptiveness toward those around him is a key ingredient in the romance that unfolds.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I wanted to write a romance novella that's a bit off the beaten path. I was specifically interested in writing from the perspective of a man, preferably the sort of guy you don't see on the covers of most romance novels. David is passionate but gentle, attractive but unassuming. With the wacky, young freelance writer named Kalifornia, I created a playful counterpart to David. I think they make for an unusual but very engaging couple.
Book Sample
She was always lying.
“It’s the loan shark,” she said as she pocketed the envelope that had been left in our mailbox. I’d only had the chance to glimpse the name in the return address: Jackson Jackson. “Have you ever been involved with a loan shark?” she asked.
I had not.
“Keep it that way,” she said. “This guy’s been on my tail for some time. I owe him a crap load of money.”
“Really,” I said.
She stole a couple glances at me while I put down the grocery bags to unlock the door. “Yeah, really,” she said, already growing defensive. “I was nineteen. Young, beautiful, and naive. I had no idea borrowing a hundred bucks could be such a risky affair.” She paused. “A hundred and fifteen.” Our eyes met. “And seventy-five cents,” she concluded breezily.
“I see,” I said. “He got you with the interest, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“What is it?”
“Um, the interest? Like twenty. A week.”
“Twenty what?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Percent? Bucks?”
“Yeah, can you believe it?”
I waited a moment. “Yen?”
She ignored me. Her gaze hovered spacily over the celery hearts sticking out of one of the bags. Veggie sticks for dinner, I thought. After a moment, she took off her sopping sneakers and lined them up neatly beside my boots on the mat. The moment she unbent and caught me smiling, her pout returned.
“It’s not funny, you know,” she said. “If you ever find yourself eighty thousand dollars in debt, you won’t be laughing.”
“Oof,” I said. “That’s a lot. I’m sorry.”
I sounded so serious it caught her off guard. She made that face—the “surprised fish face,” my friends called it. She searched me, first directly, then, turning her head a little to the side, from the corner of her eye. I picked up the grocery bags and stepped into our apartment.
“I’d help you if I had money,” I said.
She smiled uncertainly and began to wiggle in an attempt to shrug off her backpack.
“So…” I said. “You were nineteen when you borrowed a hundred bucks. There’s a twenty percent weekly interest. Now you owe eighty thousand dollars. How old does that make you?”
She stared at me with her mouth open. A smile came into her eyes.
“Do you need a calculator?” I asked.
She adjusted her glasses. “It’s insensitive to ask a lady about her age,” she said. “Really, I’m surprised at you, David.”
She began to wiggle again. I smiled and tapped on my chest, showing her that her chest strap was still clipped.
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Author Bio:
Born and raised in Japan, Maki Matsui has been a lifelong reader and writer, first in Japanese and then in English. She studied English at Williams College and vocal performance at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. She makes her home in the hills of Western Massachusetts, where she is better known as a classical singer.
She has published two books—Back to Troy (2020) and Daisy Fields (2020)—and is currently working on her third title.
