Pre-Order Meant to be Broken by Brandy Woods Snow
Release Date: July 2, 2018
Her secret is big. Mam's is bigger.
Rayne Davidson is
perfectly happy fading into the background. Her mama’s antics garner enough
attention in their small Southern town for the both of them, but when Rayne
catches the eye of all-star quarterback, Preston Howard, she’s enamored with
the possibilities. Too bad Preston doesn’t make her heart thump—his brother
does.
Gage Howard doesn’t mind
the town’s stares because he doesn’t get them. Growing up in his older
brother’s shadow, Gage shrugs off the endless parade of girls Preston brings
home—until Rayne.
But there are unwritten
rules that shouldn’t be broken, like cheating on your boyfriend or betraying
your brother. Rayne and Gage deny their growing attraction, neither willing to
hurt Preston—until the town finds out.
They think overcoming the
gossip will be the hardest obstacle.
They’re wrong.
Rayne’s mama has a secret,
and its revelation could divide the town, the families, and the new couple.
Can love endure if it’s
all built on a lie?
Read an Excerpt
At 9:30 Saturday morning, I find out
Preston Howard wants to date me. At 11:30, my mama hears it from old lady
McAlister and has a “spell” in aisle three of the Piggly Wiggly. It’s taken
seventeen years, but I finally understand the two things my social life and
Mama have in common. They’re both erratic and one usually suffers because of
the other.
The store manager calls me on my
cell and asks me to come get her. He has my number because he’s Daddy’s best
friend’s brother and used me to babysit his kids a few times last year. I
answer, expecting another job offer.
“Rayne? This is Dave Sullivan, you
know, the manager down at the Piggly Wiggly? There’s been an incident with your
mama.”
Apparently it’d happened in front of
the Luzianne tea bags. She was comparing the family size to smaller ones when
Mrs. McAlister offered her a coupon… and a piece of news.
The details get a little sketchy
from there—something about her sinking to the floor and gasping for air. That’s
when the manager came over with one of those small brown paper sacks they use
to bag up ice cream and had her breathe in it. A nurse and a vet, both in the
crowd assembled around her, agreed from their varied medical expertise it
didn’t appear to be life-threatening. When the paper bag seemed to work, he
decided to call me instead of the ambulance.
I pull into the
parking lot ten minutes later. She’s sitting on the front bench beside the
automatic doors where the employees go to smoke, under the “I’m Big on the
Pig!” sign. Mrs. McAlister sits beside her, a little too close, waving a
folded-up circular in her face. I wonder what the store employees and shoppers
think of me, casually parking the car, walking-not-running, and looking both
ways before crossing the main traffic flow. It doesn’t take a genius to figure
out they’re all watching from between the weekly specials scribbled on the
plate-glass windows.
I don’t feel the
need to rush. It isn’t a heart attack or stroke. I call it her bipolar though
Daddy gets mad when I refer to it like that. The diagnosis is anxiety, better
known as my evil little sister—always around, always a pain, and always ruining
my life.
This sort of
episode has happened before, just not too often in public. In most societies
that’s considered good news—but not in the South. They say we don’t hide our
crazy, we dress it up and parade it on the front porch. And even if we don’t,
someone else will do the parading for us—telegraph, telephone, tell-a-southern
woman. We know how to reach out and touch some people.
Mrs. McAlister
jumps up from the bench and grabs my arm as I step up on the curb. “I suwannee,
child. She liked to turned over her buggy and spilt them groceries everywhere.”
Talking to some
of the older ladies in town always feels like walking out of real life and into
some part of Steel Magnolias. She
gives me her version of the sordid details. Mama created quite a scene, not
just with her episode but also by her scandalous choice of groceries. The
mayonnaise was the only casualty, rolling out the leg hole of the kiddie seat
portion of the cart when Mama accidentally gave it a rough shove while
collapsing on the linoleum.
Mrs. McAlister
hadn’t bothered to pick that up and put it back in the buggy, which was now
waiting by the customer service desk. It
wasn’t Dukes Mayonnaise. She leans in close to whisper because how
embarrassing would that be for Mama.
To her, it’s further proof Mama hadn’t been feeling well long before their
conversation. What southern woman in her right mind buys off-brand mayonnaise?
Brandy Woods Snow
Brandy
Woods Snow is an author and journalist born, raised and currently living in
beautiful Upstate South Carolina. She earned a BA in English/Writing from
Clemson University and worked in corporate communications and the media for
more than 17 years before pursuing her true passion for novel writing. Brandy is a member of Romance Writers of America
(RWA) and Young Adult RWA.
When Brandy’s not writing,
reading, spending time with her husband or driving carpool for her three kids,
she enjoys kayaking, family hikes, yelling “Go Tigers!” as loud as she can,
playing the piano and taking “naked” Jeep Wrangler cruises on twisty, country
roads.
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