“If opposites attract, then I am nothing. Because you, you are everything.”
There’s no easy road traveled to such an intense sentiment, one I never dreamt I’d feel….
But I also never planned on Cannon Blackwell climbing aboard my tour bus.
It’s been seven years of coping…seven years of existing with anger, torment, and bitterness…seven years of living for everyone else. That’s how Liz Carmichael’s life has been, and she’s been fine with it – at least outwardly. She has her brother, her two best friends and bandmates, Jarrett and Rhett, and her uncle. She doesn’t need anyone else, or so she thinks until Cannon Blackwell enters her life. Their introduction happens at a rest stop, and her instincts tell her to take a chance and invite him to join the band. She’s risking a lot bringing a complete stranger on her bus, but as soon as Cannon interacts with her brother, she knows she made the right decision. He’s everything she never thought she wanted or needed, and she’s scared shitless of her feelings for him. She’s a control freak; it’s the only way she survives all of the anguish that surrounds her life, and Cannon throws her control off its axis. How can one man make her feel so much in such a small amount of time? How can someone who was just recently engaged make her feel like she’s the only woman in the world for him? In Liz’s mind, those things only happen in the movies; it doesn’t happen in the real world, especially hers. So why then do her instincts tell her it’s real, and how does she shut off her mind enough to take this chance for herself – this might be her opportunity to fly – to do some living on her own – to be defined by more than her “safety net” of darkness and angst.
Pretty Instincts blew me away. This is my first read by S.E. Hall, but it will not be my last. There’s just something about her storytelling that grabs readers’ attention from the beginning and doesn’t let it go until they’ve experienced every emotion she wanted them to feel. Liz Carmichael is such a dynamic heroine. She completely closed herself off to her own happiness. She lives for those she loves and that’s what makes her thrive. She pours everything she is into others’ happiness because that select group of people is who has stood by her side since the beginning. She’s protective and fiercely loyal. But she’s also a woman who wears masks. Someone who knows the roles she needs to play to survive her inner turmoil. Liz hides behind her created façade, but it’s exhausting. S.E. Hall captures Liz’s complexity effortlessly. Readers will look at her with eyes of compassion, but they will also want to try to break her free from the binds she’s put around herself.
Cannon Blackwell has taken a spot in my list of the top FIVE book boyfriends of 2014. He may seem too good to be true, but he’s exactly what Liz needs to break away at the wall she has around her heart. He’s compassionate, caring, and he calms Liz like no one else can. He knows what she needs before she even asks, and he’s just as protective of Connor as Liz is. He’s a smooth talker – it’s almost lyrical when he pours his heart out, and he’s not afraid to show Liz what he wants. He’s the perfect blend of sexy and sweet…fierce and fragile…complicated and easy.
What separates Pretty Instincts from a lot of other books is the fact that it is about so much more than Liz and Cannon. It’s about what happens when everything a person thought she knew ends up being wrong, and the steps taken to rebuild broken relationships. It’s about the ability to love in various ways – none more or less than the others – just different. It’s about instincts and how they can lead someone to her other half – the one person who will help her breathe when she can’t do it on her own. It’s about the bonds of friendship and family, and it’s about letting go of the past and flying freely. It’s an amazing story of loss, betrayal, and redemption, and all readers need to experience it.
A complimentary copy was provided in exchange for an honest review.
5 + poison apples
“I can’t let a stranger on the bus with Bubs. What if he’s a mass murderer?” What if he’s not as pretty on the inside as he is on the outside?
“Ah, Mama Bear, run him through all the tests. You’re careful. And he might say we’re crazy and tell us to fuck off. Let’s ask before we worry about it.”
Biding my time, I chew on the inside of my cheek and look back, confirming Conner’s still tossing the Frisbee happily, Rhett watching him. “You asking or am I?” I sigh, hopefully masking the foreign tingle of anticipation working its way up my battered spine.
“He’s hetero, I can tell from here. I say we send in,” he flicks a finger back and forth between my boobs, “the big guns.”
“Don’t lick your lips!” I shove him, mouth agape. “You’re like my brother. That’s illegal in at least forty states, and gross.”
“You didn’t think it was gross when—”
“Enough.” I slap my hand over his mouth hastily. “I’ll go, but you stay right here and watch, closely. He makes a move for a weapon, dial 911 as you run to rescue me.”
“On it.” He grins at me, full of victory, a hint of his earlier teasing still lingering in his expression.
Girding my loins, I think, do women have loins and can they be girded or is that only a guy thing? Summoning my courage, I move with slow, hesitant steps in the miraculous unknown’s direction, reminding myself with each one that it’s for the boys, the band, the overall goal of staying the hell out of Sutton. And it is, but I’m kidding myself if I don’t admit I wouldn’t be this anxious if I was walking up to an ugly man. Or even a kinda good-looking man. Shallow much, Liz? Nah, I have no control over biological response.
Almost there now, his head lifts and turns at my approach, connecting eyes as sable brown as thick molasses to my own. He was tummy-turning enough far away. Up close, he’s better than photoshopped, a clear-cut case for Guinness Genetics. His lips are full, much plumper than my own, and he has a strong nose and jawline, both very masculine, the latter covered in a dark scruff. His hair is the same rich chestnut as his eyes, not too short, but definitely not too long. “Just fucked” hair (isn’t that what they call it?) be damned. He’s got “just fucked her and she had to hold on” locks, unruly in the most intricate fashion. The black boots at the end of long, thick legs are scuffed, faded jeans worn, well, and the long sleeved black thermal he’s wearing? Oh, he wears it, or rather, every muscle in his torso holds it up flawlessly.
Bottom line—he’s easy to look at.
“Are you a deranged serial killer and/or rapist?”
I like to open subtly.
“No, are you?” His timbre is deep and gravely, sending my vagina subliminal messages. Something along the lines of “yup, you want it.” With a voice like that, I’m praying he isn’t a chain smoker. To fuzz this perfect picture with the stench of an ever-present cloud of smoke would be one helluva slap in the face of the Almighty creator.
“No,” I answer too defensively, this instant, highly unusual attraction frying my staple “too cool to care” attitude that, up until right now, I’d like to think I pull off fabulously. “You any good?” I lean and point to the instrument on his back, brows bowed in questioning antagonism.
“Define good,” he deadpans, head down as he pulls the guitar off his back and puts it back in its case.
“Hendrix.”
“Not left-handed.” He shrugs as he straightens back up and captures my gaze.
“Page.”
He laughs, treating me to one seriously enlightening sound, accompanied by the sexiest blindingly white smile. “Then no, not even close to good.”
Damn, I should’ve gone with a mediocre guitarist! Now I’ve backed myself into a corner, Stranger Danger not giving me anything in the form of segue. Struggling, I shove my hands in my back pockets and rock nervously back and forth on my heels, forced to come up with another revealing yet seemingly aloof question.
“Why do you ask?” he rescues me.
“Our band.” I toss my head back toward the bus. “We need a bassist. And since you’re hitchhiking, I thought maybe—”
He drops down from his perch on the top edge of the bench and stands, well over six feet of sinister sex appeal stretching out before my eager eyes. “Do you know what a hitchhiker is?”
“What?” I shake my head to clear it and take a step back. “Yes, of course.”
“You sure about that?” He eats up the steps I’d retreated, placing his body close enough to mine that I can literally feel the battle of push and pull between us. “‘Cause where I come from, hitchhikers stand at the road, where you can see them. It increases their chances of actually landing a ride.” His left eyebrow curves up at one end and that same eye, I swear it, twinkles at me. “Seeing as how I’m sitting at the back of a desolate rest stop, I’m either the worst hitchhiker in history,” another step closer, “or you’re labeling me with the wrong tag.”
I check my phone for the tenth time. It’s almost 2 am, surely they’re asleep and I can sneak to my own bed. Sleeping with Conner isn’t as fun as you might think, unless you think being caged with a wild animal sounds like a party.
As quietly as possible, I slink out of the bed and through his door, pulling it closed; halfway there. Sending up a silent prayer I don’t meet any open, awake eyes, I turn, relieved at the lack of spectators, and scurry to my bed. After sharing my song tonight, I need some time to pass before I look them in the eyes—those lyrics, the tremor in my voice as I sang—I’m not ready for questions or commentary.
“Pssst.”
Of course I didn’t pull off the covert bed switch undetected. This bus—40 x 8 feet—might as well be a shoebox. I draw back the curtain, squinting my eyes against the dimness.
“Hey,” Cannon greets me with a whisper and grin from his bed, curtain also pulled open.
Giving him back the smile I can’t contain, I finger wave. Has he been waiting up for me? Was I secretly hoping he’d still be awake? Do I want to know either answer or what it says about me? What planet am I living on that this is now an issue?
“Here.” He scoots to the edge of his bunk and hands across…an earbud? Eyeing him curiously, I turn on my side, facing his way, and put it in my ear. “Shhh.” He puts a finger over his lips then winks and slips the other bud in his own ear, only breaking eye contact for a split second to tap the phone screen, then reconnecting in the muted light.
“Hello, Lizzie,” his voice sounds in my ear and as my eyes pop in surprise. He once again does the “shhh” thing, nodding to me to just listen. “I thought about playing you ‘You Are So Beautiful,’ but surely you already know that. This, you may not.”
There’s a brief pause, then music starts… It’s “Have a Little Faith in Me.”
I know I whimper aloud, but I force my eyes to stay on his no matter how badly I want to hide them and the building tears. Through the entire song, I stare and he stares back, mouthing the words every once in a while. With the closing notes, his voice returns.
“Not too corny, I hope. Just…think about it. Sweet dreams, Lizzie.”
Apparently picking up on the fact I’ve been rendered incapable of functioning, he reaches over and gently removes the earbud, taps the end of my nose with his fingertip, then closes my curtain for me.
I’ll have the corny with a side of corny please.
S.E.Hall resides in Arkansas with her husband of 18 years and 4 beautiful daughters. When not in the stands watching her ladies play softball, she enjoys reading and writing. She’s also being clutch at Baggo, when it’s warm outside!
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