The Book of Tomorrow by Cecelia Ahern :
The magical new novel from number one bestseller Cecelia Ahern. Tamara Goodwin has always got everything she’s ever wanted. Born into a family of wealth, she grew up in a mansion with its own private beach, a wardrobe full of designer clothes, a large four poster bed complete with a luxurious bathroom en-suite. She’s always lived in the here and now, never giving a second thought to tomorrow. But then suddenly her dad is gone and life for Tamara and her mother changes forever. Left with a mountain of debt, they have no choice but to sell everything they own and move to the country to live with Tamara’s Uncle and Aunt. Nestled next to Kilsaney Castle, their gatehouse is a world away from Tamara’s childhood. With her mother shut away with grief, and her aunt busy tending to her, Tamara is lonely and bored and longs to return to Dublin. When a travelling library passes through Kilsaney Demesne, Tamara is intrigued. She needs a distraction. Her eyes rest on a mysterious large leather bound tome locked with a gold clasp and padlock. With some help, Tamara finally manages to open the book. What she discovers within the pages takes her breath away and shakes her world to its core. Told in Cecelia’s imitable style, The Book of Tomorrow is a mesmerising and magical story for this autumn.
This book will be interesting too!!
The Chocolate Run by Dorothy Koomson :
" WHO NEEDS LOVE WHEN YOU'VE GOT CHOCOLATE?? "
THE CHOCOLATE RUN ; first chapter--->
chapter one : Give Us a Break
You’re floating on a sea of chocolate.
Soft, warm, sweet, sensual chocolate . . . soothing, calming,
velvety chocolate. It’s lapping over your tired, naked body.
Covering it. Caressing it. Taking away all your aches and troubles.
Everything, the world, reality, people, washed away by the
fluttering of chocolate against your skin. Peacefully, mil—
‘I’ll, er, be off then.’
That doesn’t sound like part of my chocolate nirvana. I cracked
open a sleep-deprived eye, checked my surroundings.
Oh. I wasn’t drifting on a creamy, cocoa-based ocean after
all. I was hunched up on my sofa with my knees pulled up to
my chest, my forehead resting on my knees, and my off-white
towelling dressing gown pulled around my naked body. I didn’t
need a mirror to know my face was saggy from lack of rest; my
black-brown eyes were ringed with crusts of sleep; and my
usually neat, cheek-length black hair stood up in so many
peaks and spikes it resembled a Gothic wrought iron sculpture.
Nope, couldn’t get further from my heaven if I tried.
Especially when there’s a man stood in my living room yammering
on about leaving.
Moving like a woman approaching the gallows, I lifted my
head and turned to face him.
Greg was dressed: midnight-blue, wide-rib jumper under a
knee-length coat. Navy blue jeans. Black record bag slung
across his body. Dressed. Fully dressed. Why am I surprised? If
he’s leaving, he’d hardly be stood in his underpants, would he?
He looked back at me, obviously waiting for me to speak.
To respond to his statement of intent to leave.
I played for time by lowering my legs, careful not to flash
anything under my dressing gown. I started to fiddle with a
spike of my black hair, winding it around my index finger as I
tried to make eye contact without looking at him.
How am I supposed to act? It’s been so long since I’ve done
this, I’ve forgotten how it goes. Am I meant to be casual?
Blasé? Keen? Serene? Desperate?
Then there’s the speaking thing. What am I supposed to
say? ‘So long and thanks for all the s**?’ or ‘Go away and never
darken my bedroom again?’
And what about breakfast? I’m pretty sure you’re meant to
offer it. But that’s, what, another hour or so. Surely he wouldn’t
want to prolong this by staying for breakfast. Or would he?
But if he leaves now, what do we do on Monday? How do we
behave – be – if we leave things up in the air?
There were so many questions that needed answering you’d
think someone would’ve written an instruction manual on
this, wouldn’t yer? The Little Guide to Big Mistakes or something.
They’d be raking it in.
Maybe I should go for a compromise. Not breakfast, not
door . . . Cab! I’ll offer him a cab. That way, he’ll hang around
long enough for one of us to blurt out, ‘It never happened,
OK?’ Then we’d agree to never mention it again. Ever. And
then he’d do the decent thing and go away.
I cleared my throat, forced myself to make eye contact. The
lock of hair was twisted so tightly around my index finger the
tip throbbed. ‘Do you want me to call you a cab?’ I asked,
sounding pleasant and calm. Nobody would guess I was having
trouble breathing, would continue to have trouble breathing
until he’d gone.
‘No, I’ll just be going. Get out of your way,’ he replied and
didn’t move.
‘Are you sure?’ I persisted.
He nodded and still didn’t move, showed no sign of knowing
how to move.
‘Really, it’s no trouble,’ I said. ‘You stand there, I point at
you and go, “You’re a cab.” Dead easy. I do it all the time.’
He simply stared at me.
I stared at him.
Breakfast it is then.
p/s :so later if you want to buy me a gift..don't take too much time to think..just go to BookXcess and buy 1 for me!!hahaha!!!;-p
OH!! by the way..my birthday is on 15th November!!!..HAHAHA!!!
THE CHOCOLATE RUN ; first chapter--->
chapter one : Give Us a Break
You’re floating on a sea of chocolate.
Soft, warm, sweet, sensual chocolate . . . soothing, calming,
velvety chocolate. It’s lapping over your tired, naked body.
Covering it. Caressing it. Taking away all your aches and troubles.
Everything, the world, reality, people, washed away by the
fluttering of chocolate against your skin. Peacefully, mil—
‘I’ll, er, be off then.’
That doesn’t sound like part of my chocolate nirvana. I cracked
open a sleep-deprived eye, checked my surroundings.
Oh. I wasn’t drifting on a creamy, cocoa-based ocean after
all. I was hunched up on my sofa with my knees pulled up to
my chest, my forehead resting on my knees, and my off-white
towelling dressing gown pulled around my naked body. I didn’t
need a mirror to know my face was saggy from lack of rest; my
black-brown eyes were ringed with crusts of sleep; and my
usually neat, cheek-length black hair stood up in so many
peaks and spikes it resembled a Gothic wrought iron sculpture.
Nope, couldn’t get further from my heaven if I tried.
Especially when there’s a man stood in my living room yammering
on about leaving.
Moving like a woman approaching the gallows, I lifted my
head and turned to face him.
Greg was dressed: midnight-blue, wide-rib jumper under a
knee-length coat. Navy blue jeans. Black record bag slung
across his body. Dressed. Fully dressed. Why am I surprised? If
he’s leaving, he’d hardly be stood in his underpants, would he?
He looked back at me, obviously waiting for me to speak.
To respond to his statement of intent to leave.
I played for time by lowering my legs, careful not to flash
anything under my dressing gown. I started to fiddle with a
spike of my black hair, winding it around my index finger as I
tried to make eye contact without looking at him.
How am I supposed to act? It’s been so long since I’ve done
this, I’ve forgotten how it goes. Am I meant to be casual?
Blasé? Keen? Serene? Desperate?
Then there’s the speaking thing. What am I supposed to
say? ‘So long and thanks for all the s**?’ or ‘Go away and never
darken my bedroom again?’
And what about breakfast? I’m pretty sure you’re meant to
offer it. But that’s, what, another hour or so. Surely he wouldn’t
want to prolong this by staying for breakfast. Or would he?
But if he leaves now, what do we do on Monday? How do we
behave – be – if we leave things up in the air?
There were so many questions that needed answering you’d
think someone would’ve written an instruction manual on
this, wouldn’t yer? The Little Guide to Big Mistakes or something.
They’d be raking it in.
Maybe I should go for a compromise. Not breakfast, not
door . . . Cab! I’ll offer him a cab. That way, he’ll hang around
long enough for one of us to blurt out, ‘It never happened,
OK?’ Then we’d agree to never mention it again. Ever. And
then he’d do the decent thing and go away.
I cleared my throat, forced myself to make eye contact. The
lock of hair was twisted so tightly around my index finger the
tip throbbed. ‘Do you want me to call you a cab?’ I asked,
sounding pleasant and calm. Nobody would guess I was having
trouble breathing, would continue to have trouble breathing
until he’d gone.
‘No, I’ll just be going. Get out of your way,’ he replied and
didn’t move.
‘Are you sure?’ I persisted.
He nodded and still didn’t move, showed no sign of knowing
how to move.
‘Really, it’s no trouble,’ I said. ‘You stand there, I point at
you and go, “You’re a cab.” Dead easy. I do it all the time.’
He simply stared at me.
I stared at him.
Breakfast it is then.
p/s :so later if you want to buy me a gift..don't take too much time to think..just go to BookXcess and buy 1 for me!!hahaha!!!;-p
OH!! by the way..my birthday is on 15th November!!!..HAHAHA!!!
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