Today we’re very pleased to welcome Cate Lord to the site for her blog tour stop! Her new book Lucky Girl is out and she’s written us a guest post to go alongside its release. After you’re done reading the article, click “Read More” to read an excerpt from the novel! Enjoy, and our thanks go to Cate for writing the post!

Thanks so much to Chick-Lit Reviews for inviting me to drop by today! I’m thrilled to be here.

Some authors write Chick Lit novels because their creative muse turns up her perfect button nose at the thought of trying any other genre. Me? I wrote my quirky Chick Lit romantic comedy, Lucky Girl, a September release from Entangled Publishing, as a challenge.

My muse is willing to indulge most of my story ideas. She inspired me to write six emotionally-charged medieval romances that were published in mass market paperback to strong reviews; several of the books finaled in prestigious contests for published authors. While writing these novels, though, my muse whispered that there were more genres to be tapped in my “creative toolkit.” There was nothing wrong, she hinted, with writing historical romances, but why not try a story that was set in the twenty-first century and veered more toward women’s fiction? Instead of concentrating on developing the love story between a medieval hero and heroine, why not focus on the character growth of a modern day heroine?

I decided to give it a try.

The challenge wasn’t just in writing a contemporary setting complete with modern conveniences like cell phones, laptops, and sparkly lip gloss. It was also in tightening my focus. It was strange, at first, to limit the point of view to that of twenty-nine-year-old Jessica Devlin who works as the beauty editor of Orlando’s O Tart magazine and who takes an overdue vacation to fly to England to take part in her British cousin’s wedding. In my historical romances, I gave equal attention to the points of view of the hero and heroine; we see, feel, and live the plot through their thoughts, emotional reactions, and decisions. Could I tell a complete story from just one character’s perspective?

I started chewing my nails—not an easy feat while trying to type. I made a list of issues that concern most women of today, such as job security, weight, dating, office politics, computer woes, mother-daughter relationships, and the longing to find Mr. Right. Secretly, I wondered if my muse had set this challenge to drive me crazy.

The more I got to know the insecure, heartbroken, loyal, eccentric, sarcastic, and lovable Jess, though, the more determined I became to write her book. Because we only see the world through Jess’s eyes, I leave more for the reader to interpret than I do in my historicals. For example, Jess stresses over the pounds she’s gained in the four months since her ex-fiancé betrayed her, and is appalled at the way she looks in the maid-of-honor gown she’s to wear to the wedding. Is Jess as overweight as she thinks? Or, due to the painful, crushing blow her ex delivered to her self-esteem, is she imagining how awful she looks? Personally, I see Jess as a pretty normal-weight woman whose insecurities make her blow things out of proportion, but I’m also happy to let readers imagine her as they prefer.

Another element of the challenge was finding the right story tone. My medievals, for the most part, were dramatic and emotionally intense. Sure, there’s angst in Lucky Girl—especially when at the wedding Jess runs into Nick Mondinello, the gorgeous Brit she’d met through an embarrassing incident in a pub two years ago and never, ever imagined to see again. However, the angst is delivered in a funny, self-deprecating way that shines the spotlight squarely on Jess. It’s her story, after all. Lucky Girl is her journey to overcoming heartbreak, regaining her self-worth, and finding true love, and what better way to get there than by having a laugh now and again—especially if that humor touches readers because they think “yeah, I’ve been embarrassed too, so girlfriend, I know exactly how you feel.”

In writing Lucky Girl, Jess became like a close friend to me. I cherish every book character I’ve created, but I especially loved that Jess shared her secrets with me, including her intense attraction to hottie Nick despite the fact she’d sworn off serious relationships and believed he was unattainable. I grew to deeply care about her, and was glad I was able to give her the “happily ever after” she’d dreamed about.

By the book’s end, I regretted having to type “The End.” I’d created a first-person story that was a blend of Chick Lit and romance, and I loved how it had turned out. My muse was also delighted. She insists I should write more books like Lucky Girl. She believes Jess’s English cousins deserve their own HEA’s. I smile, because I realize my muse is offering me another challenge—one that I just might have to accept.

An Excerpt from Chapter Two of Lucky Girl:

A boisterous rendition of Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring started up inside the church. I glanced in. The pews were almost filled. I recognized Aunt Prim. She was impossible to miss, even from behind, her curly gray hair poking out from beneath her enormous white hat spattered with fuchsia, yellow, and pink flowers.

The groom, Andrew Castleton, a handsome guy with wavy blond hair, stood with his best man near the altar. Andrew clasped and unclasped his hands as if he couldn’t keep them still. Yup, I’d say he was nervous.

Anna and Charlotte moved to my side. When Andrew saw them, relief softened his features. He grinned, and I knew exactly what he was thinking: “Tilly, the woman I love, is here.”

My cousins giggled and nodded.

My attention shifted to the best man. Mmm. Tall, broad-shouldered—

Oh. My. God!

My heart jolted like I’d just stuck my pinkie into an electrical outlet.

Nick Mondinello. The man my cousins had whispered about years ago. Sex God. Playboy. Heartbreaker.

Spy Man.

He still looked like a younger version of Pierce Brosnan, the actor who’d starred in a couple of James Bond movies. Nick wore his dark hair shorter now and spiked with gel. He filled out his tailored gray suit very, very nicely.

Memories whooshed through my mind. The day after Grandpa George’s funeral. The Creaky Wicket Pub. The potted plant. Heat flooded my face, hotter than if I had yanked open an oven set to ‘broil.’

Aaahhh! How could my mind torture me at a time like this?

Nick glanced at me. Vines seemed to have snaked up from the carpet and locked around my ankles. The heels of my sandals felt rooted to the floor. The murmurs and music around me faded into a weird, Twilight-Zone buzz.

Doo-dee-doo-doo, Doo-dee-doo-doo.

I forced my lips into a stiff, polite smile and adjusted my sweaty-handed hold on my bouquet. It would be just my luck to drop the pretty arrangement on the floor and turn it into a mangled hodgepodge.

Nick looked at someone on the other side of the church, and I exhaled noisily.

Then he looked at me again. He squinted, as though he was trying to place me. Maybe he was wondering why I was blushing so fiercely.

Severe sunburn. Hot flushes. Woman’s stuff.

I hadn’t blushed like this on my first date.

I held the roses tighter to my chest. Thank goodness the big bouquet would draw attention away from my boobs.

My face burned. Scorched, more like it. Embarrassing now, but not quite as mortifying as what I’d done two years ago.

Glancing away from Nick, I watched one of the ushers escort Aunt Cleo to a front pew, where she sat beside Aunt Prim.

I felt acutely alert, as if I was a taut spring, about to uncoil with a loud poing like a Jack-In-The-Box.

Was Nick still looking at me?

I struggled to quiet the desperate squeak rising in my throat. Maybe I was worrying for nothing. Maybe Nick didn’t even remember what had happened.

He’d been drinking that night. We all had. Some of us—specifically moi—a lot more than others.

I dared a glance. Nick nodded in response to something Andrew said. A smile curved Nick’s mouth.

Hushed voices along with the whisper of silk came from behind me. Valerie, Tilly, and my uncle had entered the church.

My belly squeezed tight. Any moment now, the ceremony would begin.

Dread shivered through me.

A countdown began ticking in my head.

Ten. . . nine. . .

Oh no. In the recessional, I would have to walk arm in arm with Nick. Help!

Seven. . . six. . .

Butterflies swooped in my stomach. My hands felt coated in olive oil. The ushers led the last of the guests to their pews.

Three. . . two. . .

When the guys returned, the organist paused for a moment then struck up a vibrant march.

The Wedding March.

Ping. The moment of truth was upon me.

I hadn’t prayed in months. But as the ushers began a slow walk up the aisle, I prayed I didn’t trip, stumble, or make a fool of myself.

Not in front of Tilly and my relatives.

Not in front of gorgeous Nick Mondinello.

Again.

Anna, Charlotte, and Valerie lined up ahead of me to begin their graceful stroll up the aisle. As I drew a deep breath, Nick’s gaze locked with mine.

He was still smiling.

In that moment, I knew without the teeniest bit of doubt.

He remembered.

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