Review: Her Perfect Catch by K.L. Brady




Melanie is a struggling, nerdy sports writer with the power to change Jet’s image.

Jet is a bad-boy NFL star receiver with the power to change Melanie’s career.

Dylan, Melanie’s sexy best friend, has the power to throw a monkey wrench in everybody’s plans.

When the three connect in a chance meeting at the Super Bowl, none of their lives will ever be the same.



How could I not adore a book centered around a woman who loves football??? In typical Brady fashion, there were plenty of chuckles along the way. This is a novella so there is no need for a long drawn own review because it will tell all of the details. So, I will simply say that “Her Perfect Catch” is a quick and entertaining read that left me looking forward to the forthcoming books in the series.






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BLOG TOUR & GIVEAWAY: The Book by Jessica Bell

Book & Author details:
The Book by Jessica Bell
Publication date: January 18th 2013
Genre: Adult Contemporary (Novella)
The Book

This book is not The Book. The Book is in this book. And The Book in this book is both the goodie and the baddie.

Bonnie is five. She wants to bury The Book because it is a demon that should go to hell. Penny, Bonnie’s mother, does bury The Book, but every day she digs it up and writes in it. John, Bonnie’s father, doesn’t live with them anymore. But he still likes to write in it from time to time. Ted, Bonnie’s stepfather, would like to write in The Book, but Penny won’t allow it.

To Bonnie, The Book is sadness.
To Penny, The Book is liberation.
To John, The Book is forgiveness.
To Ted, The Book is envy.
But The Book in this book isn’t what it seems at all.

If there was one thing in this world you wished you could hold in your hand, what would it be? The world bets it would be The Book.


I lift up my Mickey Mouse skirt and pull down on the flicky-thread of my undies. But it squishes between my legs when I sit on the toilet seat.

It smells like a baby accident and a hospital in here and my heart goes all bumpy in my chest. I can smell that stinky liquid stuff that my mummy uses to make clothes white, and it always makes her rub her head after, and I have to bring her some TicTacs.

I can’t tell any bodies I did this. I can’t! They will all laugh at me and I don’t like it when bodies laugh at me. When bodies laugh my belly goes all feeling not nice and tears comes out of my eyes. Mrs Haydon will come a-looking for me at any minute, wondering why I’m not back to get my school bag off my hook. The home-time bell just runged. I’m going to be in so much trouble. She’s going to be so madly. Her googly eyes will go all wide through her yucky froggy glasses, and her cheeks will go so red that the chocolate splashes on her face will become not there. But the worsted thing will be when she sees what I done! She’ll speak to me all funny. Like a witch. I bet she’s a witch. Like in that book my Ted reads me where all the witches just look like normal mummies and daddies but have got wigs and they turn kids into mices. I hate that witch voice. Lots of teachers use that voice after they meet my mummy. Like they have ideas of making me into a dessert or sumfing.

Maybe I should flush my undies into the loo, and get wet hand towels to clean myself up without any grownups help. But I can’t ’cause this stupid skirt is too short, and everyone will see my chishy. Mum showed my Ted her chishy. I sawed it too when I went to her bedroom in the middle of the night when I needed a glass of water and I couldn’t reach the tap. I didn’t go in. I don’t want any bodies to do sumfing like that to my chishy. I can clean my own chishy now. I’m not a kitten.

Now everyone is leaving. They’re running across the playground, making squeals, throwing balls against the torlet block wall. I can hear them voices. Those parents voices that sound like everything is rooly serious. My Ted speaks in that voice all the time. And when he does, my mummy does doll’s eyes, and mumbles something about how my daddy was more fun and that she wishted he would come back. I don’t think my Ted can hear when she says that. I wish my Ted and Daddy and Mary and Mummy and me could all just live together. I love all of them.

I can hear chains on the metal fence. It’s Thursday. And there’s no after-school care on Thursdays.

Oh nose, I’m going to get lockted in!

My yucky undies drop to the floor and the torlet door becomes a disgusting brown mess. I could do a finger painting in it, though. Should I lick it? Maybe it tastes like chocolate fudge. I know that sometimes things don’t taste as badly like they smell. Sometimes my mummy cooks sumfing that’s rooly stinky, but when I eat it, it’s nice.

Should I yell for the caretaker to let me out? But how? How can I do that without him to saw this mess between my legs and all over the door?

My ears are hot. My heart goes bumpy. There are footsteps outside.

Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop!

They’re at my door. I hold my breath tight and my face hurts. I stand still. Trying not to move or make noises. I can’t speak. No way. I’d be founded out! But … if I don’t speak, I’ll be lockted in here all the night. Who will bring my mummy her TicTacs if I’m lockted in here?

“Bonnie? Are you in there?” My breath comes in my neck rool quick. It’s Mrs Haydon. She sounds funny. She sighs and makes a strange coughing. I think she’s swallowing an orange pip by not-on-purpose.

Now I’m being founded out! I start to cry. I don’t like crying. When I cry my mummy cries longer than me. And then my Ted gets all grumpy and drives off. And then Mummy whispers on the phone for ages.

I hold my hands in the air. The tears are falling over my face and making skin tickles.

“What’s wrong?” It’s Mrs Haydon again.

“Um,” I suck my crying by mistake in my mouth. “I … pooed …”

Something weird happens in my head and I my mouth goes all like a fish at the disgusting air around me. If my mummy was been here, she would gived me a paper bag to breathe into—I sawed her do it before—it maked her calmed. It would go out and in and make a cool crunching sound. It’s fun to watch it, chooally. Her face changes shape. It looks like if she didn’t get the air from inside the bag, she might just drop dead on the floor like a squished mouse that got squished in the laundry the other day.

“Oh, Bonnie, don’t worry.” That’s Mrs Haydon again. “Look, stay put, and I’ll go to the lost property box to find you a fresh pair of pants, okay?” Her voice goes all boomerangy. Maybe I’m in Doctor Who’s elevator, and if I just push the flush button I can make myself not here.

I won’t be maded embarrassed. No bodies has to be told—just me and Mrs Haydon’s secret. Maybe she’s a good witch. I think she’s putting a nice spell on me to make me feel safe. I take a deep sigh. Mrs Haydon leaves. I bend over like I’m going to spew but nothing comes out and it feels like Mr Stomach is doing some ballet in my tummy.

Mrs Haydon comes rushing back rool quick.

“Oh, Bonnie, darling, there’s a woman here to pick you up.”

Everything in the torlet goes on pause.

I look at the roof, wondering who it could be. Maybe it’s Mary. She’s never comed to pick me up before.

“I thought you said Mummy was walking you home today, Bonnie.” That’s Mrs Haydon again. She sounds worried.

“Is it Mary?” That’s me asking, not Mrs Haydon. I feel much better now. It must be her. I love Mary. She’s not as old as my mummy, but she’s not young like me either. I think she’s somewhere in the middle. It’s fun because sometimes she plays stuff that I like. But sometimes she gets weird and tries to act like a grownup in front of my daddy. I play on my own when that happens. She wears bright red lipstick a lot and has frizzy yellow hair. She is a bit fat and squishy and smells like musk sticks. I like her hugs.

I heard Mummy saying to Daddy one day that when people sawed her and Mary together in the street, that lesbians would try to pick them up. I’m glad Mummy likes Mary. But why did that made my Ted go all upset? And where were the bodies going to take them? Did they have a blue Ute like my Ted? Maybe I should get Mummy to tell me the story. My Ted’s always in a hurry, and he sometimes drives too fast. But sometimes it’s fun. I like to lie on my back in the back bit of the Ute and look at the clouds and think that I’m in an airplane without any roof.

“The lady says that Mummy got held up at the fruit shop. Does that sound right to you?” That’s Mrs Haydon again. She does a funny hiccup.

I think she hearded me nod.

“Okay, then. I’ll go look for some clean pants and then I’ll collect your things and take you to her, okay?” She waits a second for me to say sumfing. I can hear her turn on her foot and wait like the pause button makes bodies wait in the VCR.

“Okay,” I whisper, feeling Mr Stomach doing dances. I think Mary picking me up means that I don’t have to go home and watch my mummy pretend she hasn’t been crying all alone in the kitchen, while my Ted lockted himself in his study room pretending to be smart.

Sometimes my Ted takes me to the fruit shop, and he buys me stuffed potatoes for dinner and Violet Crumble for dessert. But it gets boring sometimes. Mummy and my Ted look at me through the silent glass window of the office, with stupid smiles. I know they just want to make sure I don’t go make holes in the chopped up watermelon pieces. I did it a few times. My Ted yelleded rool loud.

Mrs Haydon comes back. I unlock the door, my legs going all shaking from the feelings. She has a pair of blue undies with robots on them. Boy knickers. Eew! She nods at the floor. I lift my feet out of the holes, making hard to not tumble over.

Mrs Haydon helps me get cleaned up. She washes my undies in the sink, making sure she doesn’t touch my stuff, then dries them a under the electric hand machine and puts them into a plastic bag for me to take back home.

“Here you are, Bonnie. Good as gold.” She gives me the plastic bag, opens my school bag and moves her head to say invisible words. I think she wants me to put it inside the bag. But I don’t want to keep them. If I keep the undies, I have to tell Mummy what I done. But I can’t tell Mummy what I done because I have to be a grownup. I have to be able to take care of myself. Soon Mummy won’t be able to take care of me anymore. I sawed her once, come home, and speak funny, and then fall over and go to sleep. She was still there when I gotted up in the morning. There was wet stuff on the floor next to her bed and it smelled like fish fingers.

I just spewded up in my bag.

“Oh dear.” That’s Mrs Haydon again. She stands up and wipes her forehead with some paper towel. “You must have a stomach bug, my dear. Your accident couldn’t have been helped, I’m sure. Let’s get this cleaned up and you safely home to bed. Hmm? The lady outside will make sure you get home to bed? Won’t she?”

I nod. Maybe my mummy will sit with me now, instead of hiding in her room and writing in that book. Most of the time she just looks at that book and cries. But last night she wrote in it for ages and gave it some flowers.


Jessica Bell
If Jessica Bell could choose only one creative mentor, she’d give the role to Euterpe, the Greek muse of music and lyrics. This is not only because she currently resides in Athens, Greece, but because of her life as a thirty-something Australian-native contemporary fiction author, poet and singer/songwriter/guitarist, whose literary inspiration often stems from songs she’s written. Jessica is the Co-Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal and annually runs the Homeric Writers’ Retreat & Workshop on the Greek island of Ithaca. For more information, please visit her

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The Book