On the precipice of her sixteenth birthday, the last thing lone wolf Cat Crawford wants is an extravagant gala thrown by her bubbly stepmother and well-meaning father. So even though Cat knows the family’s trip to Florence, Italy, is a peace offering, she embraces the magical city and all it offers. But when her curiosity leads her to an unusual gypsy tent, she exits . . . right into Renaissance Firenze.
Thrust into the sixteenth century armed with only a backpack full of contraband future items, Cat joins up with her ancestors, the sweet Alessandra and protective Cipriano, and soon falls for the gorgeous aspiring artist Lorenzo. But when the much-older Niccolo starts sniffing around, Cat realizes that an unwanted birthday party is nothing compared to an unwanted suitor full of creeptastic amore.
How beautiful is this cover, guys? I love the dress and then the backpack just adds that bit of perfection to tie the modern day together with the past that Cat ends up finding herself in. Also the blurb sounds amazing. I can't wait to hopefully read this book sometime in the future!
Check out below for a brand new excerpt from My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century:
“I thought I’d teach you a dance
from where I come from,” I tell him. “One that’s much easier than that
multi-step mess inside.”
I place my left hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder and slip my
right one into his. I pause to listen to the music floating over the tinkling
voices and bubbling fountain, and begin counting the three-beat tempo. “One,
two, three. One, two, three.”
I stand still, only my head moving, slowly nodding with my
words so he can hear the rhythm.
When his head begins subtly bobbing with mine, I show him how
to add his feet. He takes a tentative step forward with his left while I step
back with my right, then we side step, close, and repeat the steps with our
other feet, all while I lightly whisper the beat count.
The breeze picks up, blowing my skirt and skimming my veil
across the back of my neck. Chills run down my spine, but the warmth coursing
through my veins from being in his arms provides a delicious contradiction.
Lorenzo continues nervously darting his eyes to our feet,
but he is dancing. As he relaxes into the movement, his shoulders rising
and falling with the steps, the confidence he always seems to exude creeps back
on his face, and he tightens the hold around me. Our faces are kissably close,
our lips a hairs breadth away from touching. I stare into the chocolate depths
of his eyes and the rest of the ball fades away. The only music guiding our
steps is my light whisper and the erratic rhythm of our breathing. Time slows.
Lorenzo grins.
“I think you got it,” I say breathlessly, running my hand
along the soft fabric of his shoulder, feeling the rock-hard muscles
underneath.
My body curls inward, pressing against his. The proper
form for the waltz is a straight spine and shoulders back, but if there was
ever a time to break the rules, this is it.
Everyone gets the Mark. It gives all the benefits of citizenship. Yet if getting the Mark is such a good thing, then why does it feel so wrong?
