Read the first chapter of Love Below Zero!

And sign up for an ARC!

As the release date of Love Below Zero comes closer, I’m feeling both anxious and excited. So I thought I’d give you all a little teaser - the first chapter!

Aaaaand if you like the first chapter, why not sign up for an advanced copy! Link at the end.

No Body No Crime

One of my favourite pastimes is murdering the fictional version of James Reid. In the second Traverse Galaxy book I shove him out of an airlock. In the third, he gets a mysterious space disease that makes his entire nervous system climb out of his nose. I am particularly proud of the gruesomeness of that one. Is inventing new and horrible ways for the fictional version of your archnemesis to die the healthiest coping mechanism? Maybe not. But he deserved it.

I wrote his first death scene in a fit of blind rage after watching his Science in Science Fiction YouTube series. The one in which he brutally pulls apart the mechanics of the wormhole drive I invented for the Traverse Galaxy. His exact words were “completely improbable, derivative and unoriginal.”

Fuck you, James Reid.

Fictionally murdering him is my version of therapy, since I’m not allowed to comment on his videos anymore. You get into one small, tiny online disagreement with someone and suddenly you’re not responsible enough to run your own accounts.

Alright fine, it wasn’t just a small online fight. It was a straight-up feud that almost cost me my career and just made Reid more popular. I’m very lucky my publisher didn’t drop me like a hot potato. So instead of lashing out at the actual James Reid, I get to kill him a bunch of times in my rough drafts. Does it give me immense satisfaction? Yes. Does it bring balance to the universe? Probably not.

His channel has over one million subscribers, but he hasn’t uploaded a video since his review of my first book. Ever since I called him out, he’s only gained more popularity with the sci-fi dude bros who think the original Star Trek series is so much better than these new “woke” versions. Everyone just conveniently forgets that if it wasn’t for the fangirls petitioning to have Star Trek renewed, we wouldn’t be here. Women and fandom culture single-handedly saved that show, yet our presence in the space is barely tolerated. But I digress.

Reid got a popular YouTube channel out of our feud, and I got review bombed, anxiety, and writer’s block. Life as a female science fiction author is just grand.

It’s not all bad though. I did see an uptick in sales, and there are a lot of people who love my sci-fi romance books. But I cannot get James Reid’s voice out of my head.

Unoriginal.

Derivative.

Why do I let him get to me? I write spicy books set in space. I’m not trying to solve string theory or the three-body problem. My work is supposed to be fun, and if it can bring some joy into people’s lives, who cares if the science is a bit wonky?

Shitting on the largest and most profitable genre, and by extension its readers (who are mostly women), is low of you. Your review lacks any kind of nuance or insight into the human condition, and completely ignores the fact that I write science FICTION.

That was the comment that got me in hot water and started an entire thread of Reid and I arguing about the validity of wormholes and if the core of the Traverse Galaxy story is romance or science. Like I didn’t write the book and know what the author’s intended message was.

It wasn’t my proudest moment. We went at it like those two annoying college kids in your English lit class who think they know everything and won’t shut up about it.

Now here I am, a few months later, my social accounts confiscated, staring at a blank screen with just the words Traverse 4 typed out.

My deadline is five months away.

I’m fucked.

* * *

A knock at the door pulls me out of my writer’s block funk. A quick glance at my watch tells me I’ve been staring at a blank screen for over two hours.

Excellent.

I extract myself from the blanket cocoon I’ve made on the couch, brushing some brownie crumbs off my space-themed PJs. It’s tiny cats in spacesuits floating around the solar system. I laugh every time I look at it.

My London apartment is small but cosy. Enough space for a tiny living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. The living room doubles as my writing space, hence the blanket cocoon. Usually I’m better at being a functioning human, but my looming deadline has forced me into goblin mode. Blankets, mugs, and crumbs litter the floor as I pick my way over to the door. I pull it open to reveal a shock of bright pink hair, dark skin, and a box of gluten-free brownies.

“You are a goddess answering my prayers,” I say as Mackenzie strolls into my apartment.

“You really need to open up a window in here,” she says by way of greeting. The air is a bit stale. I’m also unsure about when I last had a shower. The perils of being behind on your draft.

Mac lets herself into the kitchen, collecting empty mugs and dirty plates as she goes. I make my way over to the sliding doors that lead to a small balcony, pushing them open to let in a late summer breeze. It’s mid-September, and while the air has cooled slightly, it’s still nice out.

“Much better,” Mac says, her head in one of the kitchen cabinets. “Do you have any non-space-related mugs?”

“No,” I say, offended that she would even ask that. I take my aesthetic as a space opera author very seriously. I grab at the blankets on the couch, attempting to tidy the place up a bit. A small void pops its head up, green eyes staring at me accusingly.

“There you are, Mr Spock. I hope I wasn’t sitting on you for too long.” Mr Spock, a small black cat who followed me home one day (thank you, cat distribution system), just meows logically at me before burrowing back into the blankets. I decide to give up cleaning for a bad job, and just leave the cat in his nest.

Mac bangs around in the kitchen, unpacking and repacking the dishwasher before wiping empty wrappers and yesterday’s attempt at making pasta from the counter. I sit on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter, a cup of tea appearing before me.

“Have I mentioned that you are a goddess?”

“You could stand to mention it more,” she says as she slides a plate of brownies my way. My stomach reminds me that I did not have breakfast this morning, so I attack them with gusto.

“As much as I love seeing you,” I say between bites. “What brings you here?” Mac, in addition to being the world’s best gluten-free baker, is my personal assistant. When my publisher demanded someone else take over my social media accounts, I found Mac on LinkedIn and immediately hired her. We became fast friends, bonding over our mutual love of all things chocolate and Tom Hardy. Venom is an underrated masterpiece and you will not change my mind.

“You received an interesting email this morning,” she says, taking a sip of her tea.

“If it’s Netflix, you can tell them no fucking way.” Maybe I have some delusions of grandeur. I’m sure my books would make for an epic adaptation, but I’d rather not have them get their grubby paws on my life’s work.

“It’s from the European Space Agency.”

I stop chewing, suddenly finding it impossible to swallow. “The Mars analog mission?”

Mac nods, pulling out her phone to show me the email.

A few months ago, out of sheer desperation to beat my writer’s block, I applied to be the media liaison for one of the ESA Mars analog missions. Analog missions simulate what it would be like living on Mars. Basically, they lock a bunch of people in a small habitat in a remote location and hope they don’t kill each other. The missions conduct a variety of tests, but the one I signed up for will be testing the effects of food on an astronaut’s ability to cope with the close quarters and isolation.

I went through a few rounds of interviews and even a few physical tests. I was so sure I had failed those, I pushed the entire thing right out of my mind. I’m not exactly astronaut material.

I’m tall, broad-shouldered, and it’s clear I like brownies a little too much. Most days my body and I are in a good place, but other days we’re not. It’s been an ongoing process since my pre-diabetes diagnosis in May.

Luckily, physical limitations didn’t apply to this study. They made it clear that anyone with a science background could apply, regardless of their actual ability to be a real astronaut. Still, I had to complete baseline physical tests and prove I was at least physically capable of spending four months in Antarctica.

My eyes scan over the email, heart hammering in my chest. It isn’t until right now that I realise how much I actually want this. What being selected for this mission might mean for me and my career. I never had the option of becoming an astronaut or physicist. The closest I could get to the stars was through my own imagination. I’ve tried so hard not to want this, but I do. I’m just a silly sci-fi romance author, what the hell would I be doing on Mars? And yet I want to go to Mars, more than I’ve ever wanted anything, even if it’s just pretend.

“We are delighted to invite you to participate in Operation Below Zero, a European Space Agency Mars analog mission to study the effects of menu fatigue on the psyche of astronauts.” I look up from the screen to see Mac grinning at me.

“Congrats, astronaut, you’re going to Mars.”

Love Below Zero is an enemies to lovers STEM rom com with forced proximity, banter, lots of nerdy references, no third act break up, and a happily ever after.

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Indie Spotlight!

In an effort to streamline my newsletters more, I’ve decided to incorporate my Indie Friday posts with my usual Tuesday posts. This week’s indie spotlight goes to an incredible author whose work I just cannot get enough of.

Unthinkable by Dani Galliaro

Jack Leroy, in love again? Unthinkable.

But when his daughter and her best friend get in trouble at school, the divorced dad of two and notorious hockey enforcer finds himself in the principal’s office.

There, he forms an unlikely alliance with the other kid’s mom, Mara O’Connell. She’s a single parent like Jack, except with a handful of chronic illnesses to manage, no NHL salary, and no co-parent in sight.

When Jack’s fourth nanny in a row quits and he’s banned from the nanny agency, he devises a mutually beneficial plan to solve their childcare and healthcare needs.

All they have to do is get married—and pretend to be in love so their kids don’t get a complex.

Jack might not think love’s in the cards, but he’s taken down a peg when he’s willing to do anything to protect their family. And his final bluff might be called when Mara gives him something he’s always wanted but never had.

Unthinkable is a marriage of convenience double single parent hockey romance with chronic illness and mobility aid representation. It’s the second book in the Ohio Rusties Hockey series.

What to expect:

🏒Hockey romance

💍Marriage of convenience

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒 Single dad x single mom

🫶🏻Chronic illness and mobility aid rep

☠️ Touch them and ☠️

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