Begin the festive season with Nikki Moore's new release. #lovelondon

Skating at Somerset House  

Book 1, #LoveLondon Series

by 

Nikki Moore 

Amazon

There’s nothing Holly Winterlake loves more than Christmas and skating, so working as an Ice Marshall at London's Somerset House is a dream come true.

Noel Summerford hates the festive season and is a disaster on the ice, so taking his godson to Somerset House is his idea of the nightmare before Christmas!

Things are bound to get interesting when these two collide…

With a forty foot Christmas tree, an assortment of well meaning friends and relatives, and a mad chocolate Labrador, will this festive season be one to remember … or forget?

Available to buy at http://www.amazon.co.uk/Skating-Somerset-House-Love-London-ebook/dp/B00P5V4T4C

More books in the #LoveLondon series coming soon!

Released over December 14 to May 15 by HarperImpulse;

Bk 2, New Year at The Ritz (Short Story)

Bk 3, Valentine's on Primrose Hill (Short Story)

Bk 4, Cocktails in Chelsea (Short Story)

Bk 5, Strawberries at Wimbledon (Short Story)

Bk 6, Picnics in Hyde Park, (Novel)

A New Yorker in London

A day in the life of...

Lynn Marie Hulsman

The manner in which books are made today differs starkly from half a century ago, starting with the point of acquisition. In those days of face-to-face appointments and the gentleman’s handshake, my initial “virtual” meeting of my editor would have been unimaginable. Even now, the majority of authors physically walk into their editors’ offices to seal deals and sign contracts early in their partnerships. Since I’m in New York and my editor, Charlotte Ledger, lives in London, our initial meeting was a long time in coming.

On the morning of the big meeting, I felt nervous and out of my element. I’d flown to England to attend The Festival of Romance in Bedford, at which my editor would be representing my publisher, HarperImpulse at a romance fair and writer’s conference. I’d arrived in the town the night before, later than I’d hoped. It had been dark, and my brain had been exhausted from the strain of negotiating foreign maps, currency, and customs. Jet-lagged and unfamiliar with both town and event, I missed the first attraction of the festival: A costumed reading of excerpts from historical romances that took place in a local art gallery.

Determined to start fresh and get it right, I woke bright and early. I breakfasted alone, despite the fact that the Park Hotel’s dining room was filled with festival attendees. Shy and self-conscious, I ate quickly and was among the first to arrive at The Corn Exchange, the venue for the authors’ and publishers’ stalls. Many of the HarperImpulse writers already knew each other, adding to my feelings of awkwardness. On top of that, some were seasoned in the skills of presenting at these gatherings. I tried to pitch in as the others set up their table tents, laid out their bookmarks, and arranged dishes of chocolates to lure in curious romance readers. Feeling very much an extra wheel, I kept my eye on the door for any sign of my editor. She would be my lifeline, I hoped. I’d soon feel at home.

Despite the miles between us, I felt I already knew her on some level. It had been a leap of faith to hand my romance novel, Christmas at Thornton Hall, over to a stranger for a critique. I consider it act of intimacy. Charlotte had made it possible for me to do by giving me permission, in the form of buying my book. Her welcoming letter was filled with the promise that she already liked what she’d read, and would help me make it even better. When I received my revisions, I couldn’t bear to open them for nearly two weeks. When I overcame my fear, I found that I agreed with 99.9% of her suggestions, and was giddy that I’d made such a match in the form of an editor. How could we not have a warm connection in person?

At last, I saw Charlotte sweep into the room. Unfortunately for me, she was all business as she approached our table. She was in problem-solving mode: The shipment of POD books meant for the display had never arrived. 

She greeted me, and was cordial, but it wasn’t exactly the moment of hugging like long-lost sisters I’d dreamed of. Feeling fragile as a newbie author and a fish out of water, I succumbed to my demons, and allowed myself to feel uncomfortable and out of place.