(Side note: that cover makes me hungry!)
Here's a little bit about the book:
Three sisters. One life-changing summer.
Calla loves summer because summer means Duncan. They’ve been best friends for years, but Calla has never worked up the nerve to tell him how she really feels. This summer, the summer before college, is Calla's last chance.
Violet isn't much of a rule breaker in real life. But this isn't real life, this is summer, and Violet is determined to make the most of it. Besides, a little sneaking out never hurt anyone. And sneaking out with James is 100% worth the risk...even though James is completely off-limits.
Daisy has never been the sister that boys notice, but when sparks fly with Joel at the first bonfire of summer, it seems so easy and right. So why is being his girlfriend so complicated?
Terra writes contemporary, realistic romance like no one else. So how lucky are WE to have her here with us today, talking summertime, and smooches?
Take it away, Terra!
There are many things that are important about summer: going on vacation, heading off to camp, creating a giant pile of books to read, eating ice cream every day, and . . . kissing.
Or maybe it’s just me that’s obsessed with kissing. My second novel, After the Kiss, for example, is about one kiss that changes three people’s lives irrevocably. And my most recent book, The Summer of Firsts and Lasts, has got one kiss that goes incredibly right, and another one that, well, doesn’t. Even my first novel, Pure—though it’s mostly about not kissing until you’re married—has at least one remarkable kiss in it.
But I think it’s just the approach of summer in general that makes me think about this legendary lippage luxury. It was summertime when I got the first kiss of my life, after all, and then summer again when I got one of the best ones.
For my first kiss, everything was set up perfectly. I’d had a crush on my friend’s cousin for weeks, and he was coming along on the beach retreat my youth group was taking. I was elated. During the drive down, even though we weren’t in the same car, I could just feel him—we’ll call him Jason—and his dynamic dorky-but-in-a-cute-way energy. When we got to the beach, my girlfriends immediately set about the domino of verification: she-might-like-you-do-you-like-her-he-says-yeah-he-likes-you-okay-tell-him-I-like-him-then. By nightfall, my sleeping bag was placed right next to his.
At first we just talked. Whispered and giggled and got to know each other. We verbally acknowledged our mutual affections. And then, after awhile, it was just time to kiss. Both he knew and I knew that the moment was right. I was dying with anticipation. And then his cheek crossed my pillow, his breath touched my lips, and after that, it was like . . . I was being suffocated. By an angry octopus. In a tiny metal cage. (Jason had braces, you see.)
But because I liked him so much, and because I thought maybe I was just a novice who didn’t fully understand or appreciate the horrible, rabid-sea monster sensation of kissing —this can’t really be what it’s like, right??— I let him kiss me some more. But eventually my jaw gave out. We determined that we were, in fact, “going out,” and went to sleep.
I think we broke up three weeks later.
Years and years later, when I was in college (I’d had some great kisses since then, but they weren’t summer kisses), a friend and I went out for dessert at a popular restaurant in our hometown. (They had THE most killer Heath Bar Cheesecake.) We were just enjoying the lazy togetherness that summer brought (we didn’t go to the same college), when an acquaintance of ours walked in with two friends of his. One of them was just—whatever—a regular guy. But his other friend? I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He walked in the door and my entire body went, “Stop the press—who’s that?”
They joined our table. We talked and laughed about movies and who knows what else. I just know that my whole being was electric, watching this guy—we’ll call him Lyle. When the evening was over and we shook hands goodbye, I swear on something very holy that a literal spark crossed between us.
I didn’t know Lyle from before. And I didn’t know the mutual acquaintance well, or his other friend. But I knew a spark when I felt it and so the next day I went through some very embarrassing phonecalls to get Lyle’s number. (Yes, reader, I called him first.) Eventually we went out together, to see a movie that had been mentioned that night. At the end of our date, I said I’d really like to see him again. (And yes, I was still trembling with electricity.) He turned in the driver’s seat of his truck and said—oh my Heaven—“Well, what are you doing tomorrow?”
We didn’t kiss then, but let me tell you, when we finally did? Fireworks. Electricity. Sparks exploding. Fire going up my spine. No angry octopus in sight.
So, on the verge of yet another summer, I guess I’m wishing, for all of you, some incredibly good kissing out there. Or maybe even some bad kissing that helps you learn a good lesson—or at least makes a good story.
But I also hope there’s a lot of ice cream. And some good books to read, too.
Ice cream, summer reading, and mega-makeout sessions? Sounds like a perfect vacation to me!
So tell us, readers - what are your wildest kiss memories -- good OR bad?