Author's note/plea for help/A little somethin' somethin' for Jola fans

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Hi Sunday readers!

So, I know not everyone who has read Sunday necessarily follows me BUT if you have this book in your library, chances are you'll get a notification that I've updated. Yay for Wattpad's notifications! Anyway, if you don't already know (and many of you do), Before Sunday has made it into Harlequin's top 50 semi-finalists in the So You Think You Can Write contest here on Wattpad. And this, dear reader, is my shameless plea for help. Entries moving forward are based on votes alone for one part of the story only... the "Pitch."

So I thought to myself: Self, what can I do as a way to say thank you to all of those people who have or who will vote. Several people have asked me to write Sunday from Jax's perspective. For the record, I love this idea and when I have time to write (which if I win the competition could conceivably happen) but in the meantime, maybe as a way to say thank you or please, please vote, I could write at least a scene from Jackson's POV. So without further ado, please enjoy. And if you enjoy, kindly help me by voting for the very first part in the story PART ONE: PITCH and help to spread the word any way you can. I would love to see Jackson and Lola be in the pages of a real book and each vote is a step closer.

Much love to you.




This afternoon with Lola was the first time since I've been here that she's let her guard down. Even if that wall she's built is shorter by a millimetre—it's one small step for her—and a giant leap for me. The way she smiles and laughs at stupid shit I say while she unconsciously twirls her hair around her finger makes me want to ravish every inch of her body.

Truth be told, I left her at her dorm and told her to come by later because it all became a little too intense for me. She's so close to me. I can touch her skin, feel her breath, hear the way her voice wraps around my name and yet she's still miles away from where I need her to be.

Not to say I blame her. My girl is smarter than Einstein. Yeah, she's not only smoking hot, she's brilliant. The ultimate two for one. Problem is, trying to sell the idea of something so outrageous, whether it's the truth or not, to a highly logical and intelligent individual—well I think I may have better luck selling voice lessons to a shaolin monk.

The entire situation is frustrating and the effort I'm putting into getting Lola to believe what I say is real is taking a toll. I bought groceries and booze earlier so I head to the kitchen and begin rooting for the bottle of unopened rye. I'd drink absinthe if I could right now—I'd drink anything that can take the edge off.

I'm about to twist the cap off when there is a knock so demanding, so unruly, I think it may splinter the front door. Aggravated, I stomp to the entry and swing it open, ready to give the owner of the knock a piece of my mind but as soon as she comes into view, my irritation vanishes like a plume of smoke. Door number one, drowning my sorrows in overpriced rye. Door number two, Lola.

I've hit the jackpot.

The swell of her chest heaves fast and hard while she fights to catch her breath. Her face is flushed and wet with moisture. Tears. Before I can ask her why she's crying, she speaks.

"I read it."

Oh. That explains everything. I'd given her a copy of my wedding vows, and at the risk of seeming pretentious, those were pretty smooth. I step back to let her in but she surprises the hell out of me and grabs my face with her tiny hands. "I don't know you, but if you can love me that much, I can love you back. I know I can."

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