Showing posts with label Olivia Wildenstein. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Olivia Wildenstein. Show all posts

Friday, January 13, 2017

Beautiful! ROSE PETAL GRAVES by Olivia Wildenstein @OWildWrites @YABoundToursPR


Rose Petal Graves by Olivia Wildenstein is no w an extended edition! Check out the new cover and blurb below.

Rose Petal Graves
by Olivia Wildenstein
Genre: Paranormal/Faeries
Release Date: March 29th 2017

Summary:

ANCIENT SECRETS CANNOT REMAIN BURIED FOREVER.

Founded two centuries ago by a powerful tribe of Gottwa Indians, Rowan was a quiet town, so quiet that I fled after graduation. Staying away was the plan, but Mom died suddenly.

Dad said she suffered a stroke af ter she dug up one of the ancient graves in our backyard, which happens to be the town cemetery. Creepy, I know. Creepier still, there was no corpse inside the old coffin, only fresh rose petals.

As we made preparations for Mom ’ s burial, new people began arriving in Rowan, unnervingly handsome and odd people. I begg ed them to leave, but they stayed, because their enemies — my ancestors — were beginning to awaken.



About the Author
Olivia Wildenstein grew up in New York City, the daughter of a French father wi th a great sense of humor, and a Swedish mother whom she speaks to at least three times a day. She chose Brown University to complete her undergraduate studies and earned a bachelor ’ s in comparative literature. After designing jewelry for a few years, Wildenstein traded in her tools for a laptop computer and a very comfortable chair. This line of work made more sense, considering her college degree.< br style="color: #181818; line-height: 21px;" />
When she ’ s not writing, she ’ s psychoanalyzing everyone she meets (Yes. Everyone), eavesdropping on conversat ions to gather material for her next book, baking up a storm (that she actually eats), goi ng to the gym (because she eats), and attempting not to be late at her children ’ s school (like she is 4 out of 5 mornings, on good weeks).

Wildenstein lives with her husband and three children in Geneva, Swit zerland, where she ’ s an active member of the writing community.
Author Links:


Cover Reveal Organized by:

YA Bound Book Tours

Thursday, September 8, 2016

Audio Blitz: GHOSTBOY, CHAMELEON & THE DUKE OF GRAFFITI by Olivia Wildenstein @AGarcia6510 Lady Amber's Book Tours #YA #Romance #Excerpt

Title: Ghostboy, Chameleon & the Duke of Graffiti
Author: Olivia Wildenstein
Genre: YA Contemporary Romance
Hosted by: Lady Amber's PR
Blurb:
Foreword Reviews INDIEFAB Book of the Year Award Finalist!
Some endings are inevitable, but so are some stories.
Cora Matthews, the principal’s gloomy goth daughter, is not exactly popular Duke Meyer’s type. Still, Duke finds himself inexplicably drawn to her dark eyes and mysterious manner. She makes it clear she doesn’t return his admiration, but when a burst appendix lands Duke in the hospital, he and Cora will be forced to come together by the most unlikely intermediary: her eight-year-old brother, Jaime.
Duke learns Jaime has brain cancer and little chance of long-term survival. He admires the kid’s plucky positivity and wild imagination and offers to write a story about Jaime’s make-believe superheroes. So begins an epic tale—that of Ghostboy, Chameleon, and the Duke of Graffiti—and a deep friendship between Duke and Jaime.
Despite their outward differences, Cora and Duke bond over their affection for Jaime, but unintended betrayal and Jaime’s advancing disease threaten to derail their blossoming romance before it can truly take root.
Ghostboy, Chameleon & the Duke of Graffiti is a gorgeous debut novel that will resonate with the thoughtful fans of John Green’s blockbuster The Fault in Our Stars.
great sense of humor, and a Swedish mother whom she speaks to at least three times a day. She chose Brown University to complete her undergraduate studies and earned a bachelor’s in comparative literature. After designing jewelry for a few years, Wildenstein traded in her tools for a laptop computer and a very comfortable chair. This line of work made more sense, considering her college degree.
When she’s not writing, she’s psychoanalyzing everyone she meets (Yes. Everyone), eavesdropping on conversations to gather material for her next book, baking up a storm (that she actually eats), going to the gym (because she eats), and attempting not to be late at her children’s school (like she is 4 out of 5 mornings, on good weeks).
Wildenstein lives with her husband and three children in Geneva, Switzerland, where she’s an active member of the writing community.
Author Links:
Buy Link:
#Free with #KindleUnlimited
A bright light pressed against my clasped lids. Aliens were drifting down from their spaceship to take me home. I was being abducted.
            “No,” I mumbled. “I’m not coming with you.”
            “Huh?” was the alien’s response. It creased its triangular forehead. “You don’t have to. You can stay right here.”
            The alien had a childish voice. Bizarre, considering the number of wrinkles on its purple skin.
            “I have no interest in your planet,” I said again.
“My planet?”
My eyelids flipped up and I jerked backward from the flashlight shining in my face. The movement awakened the incision on my right side, making the whole area ache.
“Hi,” said the childish alien voice.
“Turn that thing off,” I muttered.
The handheld flashlight snapped off, but my bedside lamp switched on, revealing a small and very human boy.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said.
“Yes, you did,” I said grumpily.
“Okay, maybe I did.” He shifted on his feet. His head was leveled with mine, yet he was standing. “I’m Jaime. You’ve been out for a long time.”
I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “It’s called sleeping. That’s what people do at night.”
“I can’t sleep,” he said.
“I can see that.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
I was tempted to ignore him, but he seemed too young to be alone in a hospital at night. “Duke. Duke Meyer.”
“No way!” he whispered, seemingly in awe. “I’m sharing my room with the Duke of Graffiti? The guy who spray-painted the woodie on the woodie?”
“Do you even know what a woodie is?”
“Duh!”
Maybe he wasn’t as young as I thought he was.
“How did you hear about the…incident?” I asked.
“Greenwich is small.”
The story must’ve spread from my classmates to the rest of their families, and thus to our entire town.
“You’re, like, my hero,” he said.
“Hero, huh? I vandalized someone’s car. Not very heroic.”
“I know. Still thought it was cool, though.”
“Glad I made your day then,” I said. “Are you here by yourself?”
“No. You’re here too. You weren’t abducted by aliens.”
I cocked a brow and a jolt of pain radiated through my forehead. “Ouch.”
“I never had appendicitis,” Jaime said, toying with the strings that kept his Batman pajama bottoms up. “Does it hurt?”
I nodded.
“There’s some pain medication on your table. You wannit?” he asked.
“Hell yeah.”
I shot out my palm and he dropped two tablets into it. I swallowed them and then chased them with the cup of water he gave me.
“Are you sure they were pain meds?” I asked, suddenly more awake.
“They could have been peanut M&Ms. Did they taste chocolaty?”
I snorted.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “They were pain meds. I’m used to taking them.”
“Really? Why?” I asked.
“For pain. Duh.”
“You’re a smart aleck, aren’t you?”
He grinned and thick black lashes blinked down over blue eyes that seemed to take up a third of his face. “So where did the aliens want to take you?” he asked, going to sit on his bed. I could see it now that he’d drawn the divider open.
“On their spaceship,” I said.
“I would totally go.”
“You’d go with a bunch of creepy, triangular-headed dudes on a spacecraft destined for God-knows-where? Get out…You would never set foot on that thing. You’d probably run home crying to your mommy.”
“My mom’s dead, and I don’t cry.”
“Oh. Sorry, I…umm…didn’t mean to—”
“That’s fine.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “She died when I was born, so I never knew her.”
“How old are you?”
“Eight. What happened to your forehead?” he asked.
“Sliced it open.”
“How?”
“I fell against a metal weight rack,” I said.
He giggled and I noticed he was missing two teeth.
“What?” I asked.
“You should make up a cooler story. Like you were cut with a knife while defending a woman and her baby in Montgomery Park.”
“Okay…” I didn’t want to shoot the kid’s idea down, but I wasn’t going to brag about some fabricated feat.
“You’re not gonna do it, are you?”
“What?” I asked. “Lie?”
He scrunched his brow in disappointment, and gaped down at his bare feet that swung without touching the floor.
“How about I tell people I was juggling ninja stars, and one slipped and carved out my forehead?”
He looked back up at me. “Cool. But not as cool as my story. How about you got caught by government spies, and they tortured you because they thought you were harboring a Colombian drug lord in your basement?”
“Umm…You have a very active imagination, don’t you?”
“I read a lot.”
“At eight?”
He was rolling a piece of the rumpled bed sheet between his thumb and index. “It takes my mind off things.”
I grunted. “What sort of things do you have going on at eight?”
“Just because I’m young doesn’t mean I have no life.”
“That’s not what I meant, Jaime.”
A long silence set in. Rubber soles squeaked just outside our door. I wondered if someone was coming to check on us, but the footsteps continued and then petered out.
“Why are you in the hospital?” I asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbled.
My gaze darted to the small pile of comics on his nightstand.
“Do you like comic books?” he asked, following my line of sight. His voice had perked up again.
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to borrow one?”
“Sure. It’s not like I can sleep anymore,” I added under my breath.
He didn’t say he was sorry. Probably because he wasn’t. He slid off his bed and carried over a few books. I selected a Superman, which looked as though it had basked in the sun for a decade.
Jaime peered at the cover. “Lois Lane’s going to activate a de-aging machine and turn herself into a baby, but Clark Kent will give her the antidote. He puts it in a baby bottle to teach her a lesson.”
“I wouldn’t want to watch a thriller with you,” I said.
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’ll just find something else to read.” I took another book from the pile he’d placed on my tray. It was an equally vintage-looking comic strip. The colored ink had turned sepia, like the family photographs on my grandmother’s nightstand.
“I think that’s the one where Archie marries Veronica,” he said.
I frowned.
“Show me the last page?” he asked.
I flipped to the last page and held it out so only he could see it.
“Yup. I was right.”
I sighed. “I guess I won’t be reading that one either.”
“Just because you know the ending doesn’t mean you shouldn’t read it,” he said as the door of our bedroom flew open.
“Well, slap my head and call me silly! You boys havin’ a party without me?” Hummer-nurse winked at Jaime but shooed him off my mattress. “It’s the middle of the night, hun. Off to sleep or I’ll get in trouble with your daddy.”
“Okay,” he grumbled. She tucked him underneath the covers and then replaced my empty IV bag with a fresh one. “What time did you take those pills I left ya?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
She checked my blood pressure and bandages and then clicked off my nightlight. “You’ll be outta here before the day’s out. Healthy as an ox. You need anythin’ else?”
“I wouldn’t mind another glass of water,” I said.
“Comin’ right up. And you, hun?” she asked Jaime.
“Same thing.”
“I’ll be back before you can spell Yolanda,” she said.
“Thanks, Yolanda,” Jaime said.
“Anythin’ for you, sweet pea.” She stood still for a second, staring at him.
When she left, Jaime whispered, “Yolanda’ll give you some candy if you get on her good side.”
I squelched my first thought, which was, how do you know that? Obviously, he’d spent a lot of time in this hospital. Even though I was curious, I didn’t try to coax it out of him. Maybe Yolanda would tell me. “How do you get on her good side?”
“Talk to her about her cats,” he whispered. “She loves cats.”
Just as he said that, she trundled back into the room and put a glass of water on both our trays. “Nighty night, boys,” she said, before leaving and closing our door.
“Hey, Duke,” Jaime said, his voice low.
“Yeah?”
“Could you tell me a story?” he asked.
I chewed on my lip, trying to come up with something that would entertain an eight-year-old. I decided on the alien abduction tale, but this time they were taking Jaime back to their planet, which was salmon colored because fire raged underneath the white rocks, and the air was devoid of gravity, so you could fly around. As I wove a more complex plot about kidnapping specific humans to bring new skill sets to their planet, I realized that I wouldn’t have minded being abducted by aliens after all.

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

Cover Reveal: The Masterminds by Olivia Oldenstein @OWildWrites #NA #Mystery #Excerpt @AGarcia6510 Lady Amber's Book Tours

Title: The Masterminds
Author: Olivia Wildenstein
Genre: NA Mystery
Expected Release Date: October 12th, 2016
Hosted by: Lady Amber's PR
Blurb:
From prisons and reality TV to mansions and safe houses, THE MASTERMINDS revisits THE MASTERPIECERS and closes the twins’ story. It is a tale of imperfect love and imperfect people.
The only downside to Joshua Cooper’s investigation of a mob runner is not being able to discuss it with his two best friends, nineteen-year-old twins, Aster and Ivy Redd. However, when Ivy sells one of her quilts to the mob runner, and Aster hits him with her car in a motel parking lot, they become entangled in his investigation. The FBI even believes the twins could knowingly be involved with the mob. Joshua will do everything he can to disprove their suspicion and nail the true criminal.
Brook Jackson is a judge on the Masterpiecers’s art competition. That is his official job; his unofficial job is running questionable errands against easy cash. But a ripped quilt and the girl who sewed it will make Brook’s life and heart spiral out of control.
Accused of money laundering, Brook becomes the fall guy. After three weeks of imprisonment, he cuts a deal with Joshua: his freedom for the real felons and a meeting with Ivy. Although eager to clear his name, Brook wants to win Ivy’s forgiveness—and if she’s willing to give it to him—her love..
Olivia Wildenstein grew up in New York City, the daughter of a French father with a great sense of humor, and a Swedish mother whom she speaks to at least three times a day. She chose Brown University to complete her undergraduate studies and earned a bachelor’s in comparative literature. After designing jewelry for a few years, Wildenstein traded in her tools for a laptop computer and a very comfortable chair. This line of work made more sense, considering her college degree.
When she’s not writing, she’s psychoanalyzing everyone she meets (Yes. Everyone), eavesdropping on conversations to gather material for her next book, baking up a storm (that she actually eats), going to the gym (because she eats), and attempting not to be late at her children’s school (like she is 4 out of 5 mornings, on good weeks).
Wildenstein lives with her husband and three children in Geneva, Switzerland, where she’s an active member of the writing community.
Author Links:
Pre Order Link:
THE MASTERMINDS – CHAPTER 1
Brook
2 MONTHS PRIOR TO THE SHOW
A girl who stitches quilts.
This is the first thing I learn about Ivy Redd. After skimming through her Masterpiecers application, I toss it aside because quilt making is not really art. I admire people who stitch stuff. My grandmother was one of them. Up until the day she died, she was part of a quilting club who met each week. They’d cut and sew squares of gaudy-patterned cotton with such fervor that it had seemed as though their lives would fall apart if they didn’t truss them up with their needles.
Dominic, the president and founder of the Masterpiecers School, picks up the application and thumbs through it.
“Don’t bother. It’s quilts,” I say, grabbing the next file.
He studies the picture stapled to the last page. “You are too rash in judging this girl. She has something. What do you think, Josephine?”
He hands it over to the vice-president of the school.
“Pas mal. But we only have one more slot. And I found the perfect candidat.”
“Really?” Dominic asks, leaning back against the silk upholstery of his wooden chair. It was carved by one of the school’s graduates, Christos Natter. One side is curved and smooth, while the other looks windblown, stretching irregularly toward Dominic’s bulky chestnut bookcase. “Who struck your fancy?”
Josephine flings a file onto the eighteenth-century French desk next to the industrial steel lamp. Dominic picks up the file, takes one look at it, and dumps it back on the table.
“No.”
“Pourquoi pas?” Josephine asks.
Dominic flaps his hand in the air. “He’s a former soldier, not an artist.”
She folds one leg over the other and rests her hands on her bony white knee. “That is not a reason, Dom. He’s skilled. Look at that rope he wove while he was on tour.”
“Come on, Jo. It’s a rope,” Dom says.
“And this”—she nods toward Ivy Redd’s file—“is a quilt. Why does quilt trump rope?”
“Because!” I can tell from the way he looks away from Josephine that there’s more to his staunch refusal than the medium of the pieces.
“You both have a special person,” she says, “whom you did not pick on merit. I am certain Chase is a talented boy, Brook, and I am certain that Maria—actually, I’m not certain Maria has anything to offer besides her body, Dom—but I accepted. Now consent to my choice.”
Dominic reddens at the mention of his ex-girlfriend, a former beauty queen and ham-fisted artist whose claim-to-fame are crude renditions of overly made-up pageant contestants. What I heard was that he impregnated her and the only way to get rid of the baby was accepting her onto the show.
Josephine rises, and her tailored pearl-gray dress slips right into place over her skeletal body. “I will alert Mr. Kevin Martin that he has been selected. Oh, wait. That’s why we have Brook now, n’est-ce pas? To do all the menial jobs.”
I glare at her, although she’s right. That is why I’m here, to do the jobs no one else cares to do. “I’ll notify the contestants this afternoon.”
She gives me a crooked smile before stepping out of Dominic’s office.
“She hates me,” I tell Dom some time after she shuts the door.
“She hates everyone.”
“Except her fiancĂ©.”
“I doubt she even likes him.”
As I straighten out the files of the applicants who didn’t make the cut, Dominic tut-tuts.
“What?”
“The girl who sews quilts; keep her application aside. We’ll be needing it.”
I slip it out of the pile and put it on top. “Why?”
“Because.” He shifts his eyes toward his cell phone. Dominic is certain we are being listened to. “She’s a sound runner-up.” As he talks, he grabs a piece of paper embossed with his name and scribbles something.
I scratch the stubble on my cheek as I read it. When my jaw unhinges, Dominic picks up his message and shreds it into dozens of tiny pieces that he drops into his leather bin. They flutter down like confetti, settling in the dusky emptiness. I doubt anyone will collect them and glue them back together, but just in case, I crouch down, swipe some into my palm, and stick them inside my blazer pocket.
I have as much to lose as Dominic. No, that’s a lie. I have more to lose because it’s my name that’s being used, not his. Mine.
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” he says, all cheery again. “I love spring. Don’t you?”
I’m tongue-tied.
“I’m heading out for lunch. I’ll see you tonight,” he says.
“Tonight?”
“Didn’t your father tell you? We’re having dinner all together at his house. To celebrate the sale. It went well, didn’t it?”
I make a jerky head movement that’s supposed to be a nod.
“Did it pay off the bills?” he asks.
“Not all of them.”
He pats my shoulder. “I’m sure they’ll get paid soon. I have an idea.” His fingers clamp down around my shoulder like a metal claw.
I’m starting not to like his ideas.
“I’ll tell you later.” He squeezes once, then lets go and walks out, whistling a tune that sounds like something from a Broadway show.
Clutching the pile of applications against me, I stop by my office, which is more of a glass cubicle than an office. I don’t even have screens or blinds. As I heave the folders onto my desk, I notice one of the secretaries fanning a leaflet in front of a young boy’s face. It throws me back in time. Four years to be exact. I was standing at his exact spot, overwhelmingly excited at the prospect of starting at the Masterpiecers. Four years ago, when everything was still so peachy. When my family was still rich. When my little brother didn’t despise me for having usurped “his life.”
The school has strict laws forbidding siblings from attending. Supposedly, it’s to discourage family feuds. Didn’t discourage Chase from hating my guts.
Movement behind the secretary catches my attention. Josephine stands next to her triangular-shaped desk, where a lone potted orchid holds court over an ultra-skinny computer screen and a pencil cup made of cerulean blue clay. It looks as though it was crafted by a kindergartener, when in fact it was fashioned by an alumni from this school.
Josephine sees me staring. There’s something unsettling about the way she gazes back, eyes sort of slanted. My shirt collar suddenly feels too tight so I pop the top button open. She smiles that glacial smile of hers, then gapes down at my jacket pocket. I stick my hand inside protectively, before reassuring myself that Josephine Raynoir does not have X-ray vision. I rub the pieces between the pads of my fingers, feeling the raised edges in the vellum where Dominic inked his command: Find out who Kevin Martin really is.
Josephine flicks a switch and her glass walls blur, and I am left with the shadow of her body moving about like the giant stick insect I won at a fair when I was twelve. I kept it in a murky aquarium, which I couldn’t be bothered to clean. Our housekeeper, Carmelina, was too frightened of the bug to touch the thing, so it became filthier and filthier until my mother got so sick of it, she seized the aquarium and dumped it on the curb for some other little boy, or some garbage collector, to find.
I eye my trashcan, but decide against putting anything inside. It’s lunchtime, and even though I’m not hungry, I walk out of Delancey Hall, a two-story building with glossy green ivy scuttling over the brick walls. It was named after Dominic’s favorite adviser, Robert Delancey. A few years back, when I was starting on college applications, The New York Times dedicated its entire art section to the man. It was titled The Monocled Star-Maker. My father read it out loud to us over breakfast.
“Art is Chase’s dream, Dad. Not mine,” I remember telling him, mostly to get him off my case.
Chase looked up from his big bowl of cornflakes, milk dribbling down his chin. He was fourteen then. It was the year his upper lip finally grew some fuzz.
“I wasn’t given a choice,” Dad said.
“Well I’d like a choice,” my seventeen-year-old self demanded.
“And you’ll get one,” Mom chimed in, clicking into the dining room for her usual breakfast of sliced papaya, raw oatmeal, and strong coffee. She dropped a kiss on my forehead, and then tried to peck Chase’s, but he ducked away from her. “Right, Henry? We always said we would let the kids choose.”
In the end, after two years spent at Duke University, I asked to transfer into the art school to my father’s delight. It was the same year Chase sent in his college applications. His top choice was the Masterpiecers, but I beat him to it, something he never forgave me for. Just like he never forgave me for consoling his ex after their awful breakup.
As I walk toward Riverside Drive, I spot a trashcan. I grab the slivers of paper from my pocket and drop them inside. I open a search window on my phone’s browser and type in Kevin Martin’s name. There are several pages of results. I add the words ‘retired sergeant.’
There is only one result.
Dominic was right…Josephine is investigating him.