Format: ebook
Source: provided for review
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Date read: March 23, 2020
Leffersbee
1. Been There Done That - Paperback | Kindle
2. Before and After You
Hope Ellis
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Synopsis (Goodreads):
Theirs was a forever kind of love, until it was stolen.Thoughts on Been There Done That: Oh my goodness, I like these Leffersbees. (Maybe not Zora's sister all that much, but I figure she might have a few redeeming qualities under her drive, pushiness, and ambition, so I'm willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.) I might not agree with everything Zora's parents did in keeping the truth from her, but I also understand where they're coming from. The situation with Nick was sticky and they all did what they thought was best at the time.
ZORA LEFFERSBEE’S once perfect life is no longer perfect. Her tenure at the University is in question, funding for her employees uncertain, and her faux-fiancé, Jackson James’s unpredictability is wearing on her last nerve. Just when Zora is convinced things can’t get more complicated, life proves her wrong.
What the heck is he doing here?
NICK ROSSI’s complicated life is still extremely complicated. He’s used to fighting for everything he has, but he’s also used to winning. Now a man of power and influence, his return to Green Valley after so many years hasn’t gone according to plan, especially with the woman he’s always wanted.
She can’t know why I left, or why I’m back.
A powerful woman intent on righting the wrongs of the world, Zora doesn’t have time or energy to deal with the man who broke her young heart.
A powerful man intent on righting the wrongs of the past, Nick can’t help wanting to protect Zora, even if his devotion is unrequited.
That said, Zora is what I would term a well-put-together mess. She's made something of herself and the work she's done is important, but it's not her passion. She's repressed herself in a lot of ways to do things she thinks needs to be done and I totally applaud that (in some ways), but it's also left her frazzled and unsatisfied. Nick's reappearance in her life forces her to take a good long look at what she's doing and where she sees herself in the future. It's jarring and upsetting to her, but it's the first step for her to reassess and make changes.
As for Nick...well, the guy is a little controlling. Not in a bad way, necessarily, because his drive to be the best and do better pushed his company into the big time. On the other hand, he sometimes doesn't see how easily he crosses boundaries that shouldn't be crossed. Doing something for someone because you can when they have the means and ability to do it themselves isn't always the best way to promote partnership in a relationship. Nick crosses a line or two and Zora makes sure he understands that's not okay and I like that about her.
I like Zora. I like Nick. I like Zora's family and all the familial craziness that goes along with it. These Leffersbees are fun and I'm excited to see what's next for them.
Excerpt
My Grandmother Leffersbee used to say, “Life isn’t perfect, but that’s what makes it so interesting.” Then she’d wink before adding, “Do you want interesting? Or do you want boring?”
Right now? I could use some boring perfection. Just a little. Just a smidge. Please.
“Zora.” A vaguely familiar-sounding voice said my name from someplace in the vicinity of my office doorway. I ignored it, hoping they’d take my silence as an invitation to go away.
You’re almost out of time.
My eyes stung, but I wasn’t going to cry. There is no crying in clinic communication research; there is only more research, more grant applications, more trying, more doing. But, damn, I really thought we had this one in the bag. Folks’ livelihoods depended on it. My tenure, my job, depended on it. Not to mention the research itself was important—so incredibly important.
“Zora,” that voice said again, firmer this time. Closer.
Given my present state of mind and eau de sweat fantastique, I can’t help barking out, “Now isn’t a good time.”
The man didn’t respond for a beat, but then once more said, “Zora,” this time with a hint of grit and impatience.
My glare cut away from the offending rejection email and I opened my mouth to volley something scathingly polite and dismissive, but then every nerve and muscle in my body seized. The clouds outside my office window parted at that very moment, emitting a biblical shaft of light that illuminated my overstuffed bookcases—and the breathtaking specimen of man standing in my office doorway on the fifth floor of the medical research building.
What the . . .?
Shock choked me. I couldn’t breathe. The cracked vinyl of the office chair’s armrests bit into the tender flesh of my palms.
I recognized him immediately even though he looked very, very different. All the awkward lankiness and unformed promise of his youth had been ruthlessly fulfilled in the intervening years. But after twelve years of empty, aching absence, of wondering and worrying, of resignation and sadness . . . he was here.
Was he real?
“I thought . . . I thought you were dead.” The whispered words left my mouth at the same time they formed in my brain.
Nick Armstrong stood silent and unmoving, a stolid sentry, looking at me. Just . . . looking.
The width of his shoulders filled the doorway, leaving scant space between his head and the door frame. I couldn’t help devouring the sight of him, half-wondering if he were a mirage. Despite being as fashion challenged as I was, I easily identified the perfect fit of a bespoke suit, noting how the high-quality fabric closely followed the muscled bulk of his shoulders and arms. The unassuming dark jacket, white dress shirt, and trousers did little to hide his tapered waist and well-developed thighs.
His hulking presence alone ensnared my attention, but his face arrested it. He was striking. Thick, ink-black hair just starting to curl over his collar matched the dark stubble shadowing his square jaw. His slightly off-center nose, likely the result of a break, ruined the pure symmetry of his features. But his eyes were a startling shade of green, the same showy, verdant hue of summer leaves under an ominously gunmetal sky.
So unsettlingly familiar. And yet . . . No, it couldn’t be him. There was no way it was Nick. Not after all these years.
This isn’t possible.
I lurched up and made a spectacle of myself as I struggled to stand. Panic weighted my feet. Disbelief severed any connection with my brain’s higher processing, leaving me stuck to my chair with my mouth hanging ajar. “Letting in flies,” as my Grandma Leffersbee would have said.
I blinked back confusion as I stared at him, captured by a whisper, an echo of a memory. “Who . . . ?”
His mouth moved, like maybe he was going to introduce himself. But instead, he repeated my name for a fourth time, “Zora . . .”
This voice was different from the Nick I had loved. Deeper. But the way he said my name, slowly, as if savoring the taste of something rich? I could never forget that.
It is him.
Right now? I could use some boring perfection. Just a little. Just a smidge. Please.
“Zora.” A vaguely familiar-sounding voice said my name from someplace in the vicinity of my office doorway. I ignored it, hoping they’d take my silence as an invitation to go away.
You’re almost out of time.
My eyes stung, but I wasn’t going to cry. There is no crying in clinic communication research; there is only more research, more grant applications, more trying, more doing. But, damn, I really thought we had this one in the bag. Folks’ livelihoods depended on it. My tenure, my job, depended on it. Not to mention the research itself was important—so incredibly important.
“Zora,” that voice said again, firmer this time. Closer.
Given my present state of mind and eau de sweat fantastique, I can’t help barking out, “Now isn’t a good time.”
The man didn’t respond for a beat, but then once more said, “Zora,” this time with a hint of grit and impatience.
My glare cut away from the offending rejection email and I opened my mouth to volley something scathingly polite and dismissive, but then every nerve and muscle in my body seized. The clouds outside my office window parted at that very moment, emitting a biblical shaft of light that illuminated my overstuffed bookcases—and the breathtaking specimen of man standing in my office doorway on the fifth floor of the medical research building.
What the . . .?
Shock choked me. I couldn’t breathe. The cracked vinyl of the office chair’s armrests bit into the tender flesh of my palms.
I recognized him immediately even though he looked very, very different. All the awkward lankiness and unformed promise of his youth had been ruthlessly fulfilled in the intervening years. But after twelve years of empty, aching absence, of wondering and worrying, of resignation and sadness . . . he was here.
Was he real?
“I thought . . . I thought you were dead.” The whispered words left my mouth at the same time they formed in my brain.
Nick Armstrong stood silent and unmoving, a stolid sentry, looking at me. Just . . . looking.
The width of his shoulders filled the doorway, leaving scant space between his head and the door frame. I couldn’t help devouring the sight of him, half-wondering if he were a mirage. Despite being as fashion challenged as I was, I easily identified the perfect fit of a bespoke suit, noting how the high-quality fabric closely followed the muscled bulk of his shoulders and arms. The unassuming dark jacket, white dress shirt, and trousers did little to hide his tapered waist and well-developed thighs.
His hulking presence alone ensnared my attention, but his face arrested it. He was striking. Thick, ink-black hair just starting to curl over his collar matched the dark stubble shadowing his square jaw. His slightly off-center nose, likely the result of a break, ruined the pure symmetry of his features. But his eyes were a startling shade of green, the same showy, verdant hue of summer leaves under an ominously gunmetal sky.
So unsettlingly familiar. And yet . . . No, it couldn’t be him. There was no way it was Nick. Not after all these years.
This isn’t possible.
I lurched up and made a spectacle of myself as I struggled to stand. Panic weighted my feet. Disbelief severed any connection with my brain’s higher processing, leaving me stuck to my chair with my mouth hanging ajar. “Letting in flies,” as my Grandma Leffersbee would have said.
I blinked back confusion as I stared at him, captured by a whisper, an echo of a memory. “Who . . . ?”
His mouth moved, like maybe he was going to introduce himself. But instead, he repeated my name for a fourth time, “Zora . . .”
This voice was different from the Nick I had loved. Deeper. But the way he said my name, slowly, as if savoring the taste of something rich? I could never forget that.
It is him.
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About Hope Ellis
Hope Ellis is a health outcomes researcher by day and writes romances featuring sexy nerds by night. She hopes to one day conquer her habit of compulsively binge-watching The Office.
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