Annabelle Costa
Author Bio
Annabelle Costa is a teacher, who writes in her free time. She enjoys the wounded hero genre, involving male love interests with physical disabilities, who don’t follow the typical Hollywood perception of sexy.
Description
Claudia is tired of waiting for her boyfriend, Adam, to propose. They’re in their thirties and their relationship is great. What could possibly be holding him back?
It must be the woman who broke his heart years ago. If only that woman hadn’t made Adam feel like he didn’t deserve love just because he’s paralyzed and uses a wheelchair. Claudia couldn’t care less about that.
Claudia always thought Adam was secure about himself and his disability, but then one day he announces that he’s invented a time machine and, despite the risks, he wants Claudia to go back in time to stop him from getting injured.
When the invention actually does work, Claudia has another agenda. If she can stop Adam from falling for the woman who first broke his heart, then maybe a happily-ever-after will be waiting for her when she gets home.
Things quickly get more complicated as Claudia navigates 1997, getting embroiled in not only younger Adam’s life, but her own past too.
This fun read has a Bridget Jones voice with the epic love of The Time Traveler’s Wife. The added bonus is all the nostalgia of the 90s. It’s easy to forget how much has changed until you’re back there again!
“Costa’s wild imagination and keen writing style will keep readers on their toes as they breeze through this book which is quite an emotional roller-coaster ride and guaranteed to produce giggles and possibly a tear.” -Jaime A. Geraldi, The Romantic Times
Book excerpt
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…
Do you hear that ticking noise? I swear to God, it’s like I’m going crazy, but I hear something ticking. And no, it’s not my biological clock, thank you very much. Yes, my biological clock is ticking (I know, Mom), but it’s not audibly ticking. Like, I don’t walk down the street and hear it. Nobody says, “Hey, what’s that noise? Is that your ovaries?”
So no, the source of the ticking is something less abstract than my thirty-six-year-old eggs.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock …
I look around the entrance to my boyfriend Adam’s brownstone, located on the Upper West Side in Manhattan. Yes, it’s a great location, and no, I’m not dating him for that reason. There are five steps to the main doorway, and the stairs have that appearance of dirt having been ground into them over a period of decades. I can’t help but notice that some thoughtless person has stuck a wad of gum on the railing—if Adam sees it, he’ll be pissed. But it’s unlikely he’ll notice it. He lives on the ground level, which has a separate entrance, and he rents out the upper levels to tenants that he has little to no interaction with.
Adam is not much for small talk with the neighbors.
In any case, I am absolutely certain something around here is ticking and I’ll be damned if I don’t figure out what it is. You can’t be too careful these days, what with terrorism and all. Although I’ve heard that modern bombs actually don’t tick. They vibrate. So it’s easy to get them confused with … well, do I really need to complete that sentence? We all know what vibrates.
I do a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, keeping my eyes focused on finding anything unusual, and I don’t see anything, until… yes!
I almost missed it because it’s huddled in some shrubbery. Mrs. Jessup on the second level thinks she has a green thumb and Adam has indulged her by allowing her to plant a miniscule garden just adjacent to the steps. Ordinarily, the garden is just grass, tulips and azaleas, but today there’s something else in the little garden. Something alive.
It’s a rabbit.
A rabbit. Okay, that’s weird.
Let me be clear about something here. We’re not in suburbia. We’re not in some forest where rabbits frolic freely and play with their friends the deer and the antelope. You don’t generally see rabbits wandering around the Upper West Side. Especially a rabbit like this one, which is white as snow aside from a tiny little black patch on its back and has a ticking timepiece hanging around his neck. No, this definitely isn’t a wild rabbit. And I’ll bet anything that its presence has something to do with Adam.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock …
I bend down near the little trembling rabbit, holding out my hand. See, Adam? I can be maternal. The rabbit looks at me curiously, sniffs with its little adorable nose, and then cowers in the corner like I’m the hunter in Bambi.
Okay, I’m not great with animals.
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