Karen calls herself a modern gypsy because she has split her life into two perfect halves: In winter, she’s a skiing teacher in the Teton Mountain Range, and in summer, she works at her book store on Long Island. But one Easter holiday, John and his son Gerry join her skiing group, and her perfect universe is shaken. Can she overcome her need for independence and find a compromise between her free life and the man who might be the love of her life?
Karen is flighty and funny and her viewpoint is entertaining.
RT Book Reviews
This book made me laugh. There are some delightful young men in the book, and it’s hard to resist the fourteen-year-old Gerry, and six-year-old Ben. They add the laughter to the romantic problems of a woman who can’t settle down.
Lesa’s Book Critiques
Ms. Boeker has taken email to a whole other level; she is a truly inspirational writer.
(…) some of the descriptions are breathtaking and give the reader a sense of being right in the snow that glistens, in the multi-colored glow of the sunsets and in the cozy attic room. One can almost feel the damp of Seattle, the cold in the Tetons, and so much more.
Long and Short Reviews
The best part for me about this book as a whole is that neither Karen nor Leslie use netspeak and the emails are distinguished from each other by italics rather than email headers. Those two factors made this book so much easier to read than other email exchange books and fit the style of the story itself.
I highly enjoyed this email style book and recommend it as a happy, relaxed romance.
The Hot Author Report
A Little Bit of Passion” is about characters who are passionate about life and who learn how to make room in their lives for the oldest of all passions….that which we call love.
Teton Mountain Range
Do you remember the guy who made me think for the first time that I’m too old to teach skiing? I was so glad when he finished his course last year and took his turtle-y head elsewhere.
Well, he’s back.
I greeted my new ten o’clock group this morning, and the instant I finished presenting myself, he sidled out from behind someone else’s back and stared at me with his half closed eyes. A shiver ran down my spine, and I’m sure I looked as if I had discovered a huge spider amongst the Easter eggs. He must have hidden at the guest-house this morning, or I would have been on my guard.
I turned my back on him as soon as I could, but I knew he continued watching me, his head swiveling from left to right like a hundred year old turtle. That image really fits, right down to the wrinkles all over the face and the folds in the neck. You can’t imagine how stiffly I moved all at once, like a wooden doll, waiting for his first filthy comment.
I didn’t have to wait long. Just as I showed them how to swing into an arc, he muttered in that penetrating voice of his, “Show me again how to swing that hip, baby. It’s so inspiring.”
I ignored him with clenched teeth.
But of course he didn’t let go. He lifted his voice and repeated: “Baby, I said show me again how to swing that hip. I’m here to learn, and you’re here to teach.”
The group stared a him.
A woman called Minnie started to giggle.
I fixed the turtle with a stare as hard as I could. “My name is Karen.”
“Oh, my, baby, I’m so sorry. I forgot. I thought you’d given me leave to call you some other names.”
What could I say? The management has made it clear to me that I have to keep the customers happy no matter what. Every time I complain about the turtle or other types, they say I should “endeavor to be a little bit more skilled in the art of flirting”. After all, the other instructors don’t complain, so it must be me, right? Why, oh why, do so many men think the skiing teacher is part of the package tour?
I closed my eyes and tried to remember why I love my job. The purple mountains. The air like chilled white wine. The joy of flying across the snow. Meeting many wonderful people, teaching them how to ski better. And the nasty ones don’t stay long, so it’s easy to bear. Usually.
I knew I had to put a stop to it right away; he would only make it worse if I laid down now. “I can’t remember giving you leave to call me anything but Karen,” I said and swished around to show them the arc once again.
Without giving them time for comment, I made them go through the motions. It’s a mixed group, aged from thirteen to fifty, I would say. I’ll separate them into beginners and advanced tomorrow, but unfortunately, I have promised Steve to take the advanced group this time, and the turtle is advanced, there’s no denying that.
When I asked the turtle to take his turn, he managed to brush by me and yelled, “Oh, my, I’m so sorry, Kare-een, I lost my footing.”
My face burnt so much, it’s a wonder I didn’t melt a hole into the snow, but I clenched my teeth and didn’t comment.
Next came the youngest of the group. He made a very creditable arc, and when he pushed past me on his way back, I said “Well done”.
The youngster cast me a glance and said in a low voice “Don’t mind that jerk.”
Underneath his red cap two gray eyes fixed me earnestly. He has lashes every female will envy, thick and long and straight. But what floored me was the spattering of freckles across his nose.
I swallowed and promised myself to dispatch the turtle somehow, to avoid spoiling that kid’s Easter holiday.
So if you read about the murder of a turtle in the Teton Mountain Range, make sure you get a good attorney, because it’ll be hard to wriggle out of this one.