Bloomsbury Spark’s Six Month Sparkiversary ~ ***The Starry-Eyed Revue***

Bloomsbury Spark is a one-of-a-kind, global, digital imprint from Bloomsbury Publishing dedicated to publishing a wide array of exciting fiction eBooks to teen, YA, and new adult readers. And to help celebrate their six month anniversary as an imprint, they're doing a huge giveaway!

I've only read one of these titles so far -- The Art of Falling by Jenny Kaczorowski -- but I've already added several more to my TBR list. And I think that the excerpts I've been given to share with you might convince you to check out a couple of these eBooks, too. =)

Check out all the Bloomsbury Spark titles on Goodreads!

Excerpt from THE ART OF FALLING by Jenny Kaczorowski

Ben sat down on the ramp up to a guard tower. The light over the door traced the perfectly balanced proportions of his profile and shone in his close-cropped hair. He had the kind of strong, chiseled face that made her wish she were a sculptor instead of a painter.

“Sorry my sister is such a pain in the ass,” he said.

“Hey, that’s my best friend you’re talking about.” She settled beside him.

“Yes and I’ve been stuck in the same class as you two since kindergarten.”

“Another nine months and you’ll be free from us.”

He gave her a half laugh. “Don’t remind me.”

Bria shifted, leaning against the handrail. “Have you made a decision yet?”

“Not officially. I don’t sign until February, but I gave Oregon a verbal no last week.”

“Seriously? Abby said you had a full ride.”

He shrugged. “It didn’t feel right.”

“But Oregon is one of the best schools for football, right? Kind of seems like a big deal.”

Ben looked around the beach, still deserted save for a lone seagull, before his eyes settled on her. “I want there to be more to me than football, more than being that guy.”

She stilled, aware of her heart beating in her chest and the air filling her lungs. “Yeah. Yeah, I get that.”

“I don’t know.” He stretched out his long legs, gazing at the ocean. “I guess that’s why I’m out running after spending the entire day in practice. When I run, there’s no expectations, no demands. Just me and the sand and the sky and the surf.”

“I’m not exactly built for running,” she said, eyeing her figure, much too tall and all soft around the edges.

“You’re fine, Bria. Girls like Alyson Kane are the ones who aren’t built for running.”

Bria snorted. She’d give anything to squeeze into Alyson’s tiny cheerleading uniform. Her body just wouldn’t agree.

“So what about you?” Ben said. “Abby told me you visited some fancy art school in New York?”

“Oh. Yeah.” She looked down at her hands, picking at a fleck of paint clinging to her cuticle. “Pratt. I just have to get my application and portfolio in by November first for early decision, but admissions said I’m basically in if I want it.”

“Good for you. Wow. New York.”

“I know.”

He tapped his foot against hers. “Why don’t we do this anymore? Just hang out and talk.”

“Come on, Ben. It’s bad enough that you and Abby ended up in the same grade. You don’t need to feel bad for finding your own friends.”

“Abby says I’m not cool enough to hang out with you guys.”

Bria burst out laughing. Ben – star quarterback, perpetual crush, best smile in school – not cool enough? “The Queen of Cool herself is probably passed out drunk by now.”

“Hey. That’s my sister you’re talking about.”

“Sorry about that.” She bumped her arm against his, lingering a little longer than necessary. When she pulled away, something in his gaze made her hands fidget and her tongue trip over her words. “I mean, I love her, but you know...”

“Yeah. I know.” His laughter faded away, leaving something sweet and tender and totally unfunny in his eyes. He brushed his thumb along her cheekbone, the kind of simple, casual touch that made her insides turn to mush. “I’ve really missed you, Bria.”

Excerpt from THE SOUND OF US by Ashley Poston

Despite my best friend being a Roman Holiday aficionado, I only know three things about Roman Montgomery.

One, he has honey brown hair that’s usually gelled up in a wave.

Two, he doesn’t have any visible tattoos—although there were rumors he had a song quote below the belt.

And three, Roman Montgomery would never, ever be seen shopping at a cruddy old Stop-N-Shop in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

Apparently, I don’t know anything about Roman Montgomery after all.

The longer he holds my gaze, the more I can’t write him off as a good look-alike—it’s the angle of his nose, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the way one eyebrow is always a little higher than the other. He’s gained a little weight since his last interview with GQ, or maybe it’s more muscle, I don’t know, but it’s definitely him.

Suddenly, I jerk my eyes away from his gaze. Oh, God, I have underwear with his face on them. I am beyond mortified. The blush on my cheeks is so hot, it probably matches my hair. And he seems entertained by it.

“I should be flattered, meeting you here again,” he goes on. “Last night we got off on the wrong foot.”

I quickly turn my back to him. Last night I even touted that I hated his band. See, this is why I shouldn’t talk to strangers. “It’s fine. I don’t care.”

“Let’s try again?”

“Uh—no, no thanks.”

But apparently “no” is not in his vocabulary. He slips around in front of me so smoothly, it could be a dance move. He juts out his tattooed hand. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you.”

Is this a joke?