Spotlight & Giveaway: BACKSLIDE by Nora Dahlia

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author Nora Dahlia to HJ!

Hi Nora and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, BACKSLIDE!

 
Hi All You Readers Out There!
 

Please summarize the book for the readers here:

BACKSLIDE is a lovers-to-enemies-to-lovers story about Noah and Nellie, who fell in love and then apart in high school in 1990s New York City. In present-day, at their mutual best friends’ “un-wedding” celebration in California wine country, they’re forced back together and find themselves reckoning with the truth about their history and the (very inconvenient!) heady attraction they can’t quite deny.

Ultimately, can they trade their fraught past for a future? Or will they backslide and blow things up for good?
 

Please share your favorite line(s) or quote from this book:

This is not how I wanted things to go. It’s all wrong. I had plans, dammit! I was going to float out onto the estate’s veranda under the gauzy light of dusk in one of my new dresses, the embodiment of effervescent hate-glam. I wanted to look past him, through him— like the ghost he is—as he stared at me longingly from the other side of the reclaimed wood deck, all night long. Under a canopy of majestic redwoods, I wanted to toast with Prosecco and laugh with my girls and ignore him into desperate submission until he skulked home early and got a jump on that coma.
Instead, I am staring at his handsome hateful face, feeling the vestiges of our past burn through me, fresh and raw. Like a brand- new smack to the face. And I am doing it in a sweatsuit with a red kiss appliqué on the upper left-hand side.

Please share a few Fun facts about this book…

Ok, some fun stuff: Well, first, I’m also a travel writer, so I always integrate some amazing destination I’ve covered into my books. In this case, they’re at hotels in Sonoma County, both among the bucolic vineyards and quaint towns and on the lesser-known stunning coast.
Second, if you like 90s nostalgia, this book is for you. BACKSLIDE has dual timelines and the flashbacks take place in 90s NYC, which is where I grew up. It’s a world that was in some ways so dramatically different than now, but also the same (in the sense that being a teenager is being a teenager, across time and space).
 

What first attracts your Hero to the Heroine and vice versa?

BACKSLIDE is a second chance romance, so my hero and heroine first fall in…infatuation (maybe not quite love yet!) when their eyes meet across a crowded club, as hip hop blasts in the background. In present-day California, they first run into each other at SFO (San Francisco Airport) and, though their interaction is contentious and filled with barbs, we all know there are vibessssss.
 

Did any scene have you blushing, crying or laughing while writing it? And Why?

Well, for me, writing banter is the most fun. I love the sexual tension between two characters sometimes even more than when it all comes to fruition and they “just do it already.” So, there’s a scene where Nellie–left with no other option–has to ask Noah for help putting on a dress and it perfectly encompasses the angry-yet-flirty enemies-to-lovers tension that makes me laugh to write and the attraction that makes me blush if I do it right. See below! (It’s from his POV.)

Then, very slowly, she turns around to face me. We are less than a foot apart. The air between us whirrs and twists like an engine revving. She meets my gaze, with her stormy-weather eyes, and in them I think I read the same pull I feel.
My heart is pounding like I’ve been sprinting, but I’m standing completely still. I’m afraid to breathe.
Then she leans in, so we are separated by inches. Parts her lips. “This never fucking happened,” she says in my face.
And she turns on her heel and leaves.

Readers should read this book….

Well, I mean, I would like ALL readers to read this book. That would be ideal! Cool? Cool.

BUT OK: Readers should read this book…if they like enemies-to-lovers, second chance, dual timeline and/or forced proximity romances. If they like books that take the reader on dreamy vacations, offering a kind of wish-fulfillment. If they like books that are funny (I hope!), but also poignant and emotionally resonant. If they like MCs over 40. If they’ve ever felt stuck in life, like–even as adults–we need to come-of-age again and again. If they’ve ever wondered, what if…or missed someone they left behind. If in this complicated time, some 90s nostalgia appeals as an escape. And, actually since there’s also through-line about friendship, if they’ve ever felt treasured friendships slipping away and tried to figure out how to maintain even through life changes. And, finally, readers should read this book if they’ve ever experienced first love.

What are you currently working on? What other releases do you have in the works?

BACKSLIDE comes out on October 21st! And I’ll be traveling around doing events for the weeks after in NYC, LA, Boston, Washington, DC, Oakland and more. Come say hi! (Meeting readers is my favorite.)
 
 

Thanks for blogging at HJ!

Giveaway: A print copy of BACKSLIDE by Nora Dahlia

To enter Giveaway: Please complete the form below and Post a comment to this Q: When you think back to your first love, do you think it was real? Does first love feel intense because teenagers have heightened emotional states and also because it’s a first or is first love a legitimate thing?

Excerpt from BACKSLIDE:

He kneels in front of me. And, as he settles in, I take the opportunity to observe him from above. He’s in a gray T-shirt and athletic shorts, both a perfect fit. And he has clearly recently returned from a run because they’re both clinging to his body ever so slightly.
Maybe he doesn’t play sports anymore, at least not in hopes of a career, but he has definitely kept himself in fighting shape. The California sun has done him well too. His chest is lean. His arms are toned. His legs are tan, except where I note—with a pang—a large scar at his knee.
He leans toward me and it takes everything in my power not to back away. He smells like men’s deodorant and freshly brewed coffee and . . . him. And his proximity is doing something unholy to me even through the pain. It has been a beat since I’ve had decent sex. Things with Alfie had been strained for a while—and, if I’m honest, he was never the most thrilling in that department anyway. It was all kind of rote, and he was never very interested in taking direction. But this is something else—something age-old and unfinished coming to call. I cross my legs and will my eyes away from Noah’s defined arms, chest, and legs and back to his face.
Below a creased brow, his eyes scan me like I might be feral. Like he isn’t sure how to approach. Can he help me? Will I bite?
Against my will, I feel a pang of affection. And coupled with the other pangs shooting through me, it’s a problem.
We both exhale. The air around us seems to still.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, quietly, gently.
Damn.
“Why?”I demand, scared for a moment that he has read my mind. Noah cocks his head to one side, his expression amused. “So that I can check out your rotator cuff?”
“Right. Fine. I guess so.” I roll my eyes.
“Okay,” he says. “First, you’re going to have to let go.”
It is only in this instant that I realize I’ve been clutching my shoulder with my opposite hand. I slowly release my death grip and exhale sharply, the searing pain dissipating the tiniest bit.
And that’s when I remember that I’m wearing a threadbare, over- sized Whitney Biennial T-shirt, which I cut at the neck and sleeves years ago, and a pair of black underwear. And that’s it. No bra. No pants.
For Christ’s sake. How will I survive any of this?
It’s too late to turn back now.
All business, Noah lays a tentative hand on my shoulder, carefully feeling around the joint and muscles. It’s the first time he has touched me in decades, and I have to hold my breath not to react to the sweep of his fingertips against my skin.
What is wrong with me? Have I suddenly developed a hormonal imbalance? That must be it. The plane travel has somehow thrown my body into a pubescent state of horniness.
But I will not respond. So, my ex-boyfriend who I despise— but who has remained insanely hot—is touching my body. No. Big. Deal.
I will an image of my pediatrician, Dr. Shapiro, into my mind to remind me that this is just a run-of-the-mill medical exam. Noah is just like Dr. Shapiro. Except three decades younger and with less ear and eyebrow hair.
I do not want to bone Dr. Shapiro. So, I will not want to bone Noah either. I am oh so well-adjusted.
He asks me to try to raise my arm. Lifts it carefully himself, and I flinch.
“So,” I say, eager to distract myself, “not a ball boy, huh?” “Nope. Not a ball boy.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Like a real one?”
Noah smirks, still focused on examining my shoulder and upper arm.“Yes.”
“You went to medical school and everything?”
“Yup.”
“Not a correspondence one? Somewhere good?” “Johns Hopkins.”
I try not to act impressed. Even though I kind of am. “I think I’ve heard of that.”
He glances up at me with a small smile, then goes back to work.
“Nothing gets past you.”
Noah was never academically inclined. I was the studious one.
In school, he got away with the bare minimum. But I guess in the intervening years he turned that around. Applied all that dedication to baseball to something else.
Whatever. He still sucks.
“So, what, you’re like . . . a chiropractor?” I ask.
At that, he stops and looks up at me, indignant. “You think I’m a chiropractor?”
“What’s wrong with that? It’s a real job!”
“It’s a real job. It’s just not a real doctor.”
“Wow,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “Someone’s a snob.”
Also, someone is defensive about their medical pedigree. Now I’ve got him where I want him:
“So, like, are you a physical therapist then?”
“No. I am not a physical therapist.”
“A veterinarian?”
“No. But in this moment, it feels like experience wrangling wild animals might be helpful—or at least sedating them.”
So funny. I smile sweetly through gritted teeth. “So, what then? You’re a personal trainer?”
He stops and looks up at me. “Do you actually think a personal trainer is a type of doctor?”
“No,” I say, adopting my most innocent expression. “But Damien said you work with sports teams. I know how flexible you are with the truth. So, I figured maybe you were using the word ‘doctor’ loosely.”
At this, he finally loses patience. “I’m a doctor. An actual doctor. Even if that’s hard for you to believe.” I’m getting under his skin, and I am loving it. Score one for Planet Nellie!
“Okay, got it,” I shrug. “So, like, an RN? I hear registered nurses can do almost everything a doctor can.”
“Nell!”
I am enjoying his indignation and the way my needling is making him flushed. But also, my injury is currently in his hands, so it occurs to me that maybe I want him less frustrated and more focused. Plus, something is gnawing at me about what he just said—how it would be hard for me to believe he made something of himself. And it occurs to me that he mumbled something similar under his breath yesterday—about how I thought he was nothing.
I have believed a lot of things about Noah in my life, but that is definitely not one of them. On the contrary, for a long while, I thought he was everything.
Why would he think that?
“Okay,” I say. “I give. What kind of doctor are you really?”
“I’m an orthopedic surgeon,” he mutters.
A surgeon?! For professional sports teams? That’s what he’s been doing all this time in La La Land, while I thought he was working a thankless office job in the big-box-store- filled suburbs of some cloudy city?
But I guess it makes sense. At least a little bit. Because while the Noah I knew was mostly beloved for his athleticism and charm, he was secretly a gifted artist, too. That was the part of him I liked best, a part reserved mostly for me.
Different small motor skills.
In fact, though I didn’t get this T-shirt on an outing with him and instead as part of a thank-you gift after I worked on an editorial spread about the artists of the Whitney Biennial, I could have. Because even as teenagers, we wandered museums and galleries together, sharing a love of aesthetics like so many 1950s milkshakes.
“How did that happen?” I finally blurt out with more force than I intend.
He looks at me like I am a full moron. “Magic,” he deadpans.
“Magic,” I repeat, because I don’t know what else to say. The truth is, though I won’t admit it now, I am truly curious about his trajectory. After all, last time I saw him, he had a dramatically different vision for his future.
In another universe, at another time, I would have told him how proud I am of him. How amazed I am, but also not at all surprised. How I knew his future would be boundless, no matter what happened to his original dream.
But I can’t say any of that now.
How can you miss someone and hate them at the same time? Is the person I miss even in front of me—in the body of this man, this surgeon—or does he no longer exist?
Emotional tornadoes may be swirling through my head, flattening everything in their path, but Noah is the picture of calm. He looks up at me, all professionalism. “Well, you know what the problem is here. I imagine this flares up somewhat regularly.”
I sigh. Answer him earnestly. “Actually, I’ve managed it pretty successfully for years with Pilates and stretching, warm baths, arnica. It’s only gotten bad like this a couple times before and not for a while.”
“Have you done anything different lately?”
“I mean, I moved recently. To a new apartment. So I probably put strain on it then.”
He nods like, that would do it. “With your . . . fiancé?”
Is it me or did he choke on that word? I do my own noncommittal cough-nod-headshake hybrid.
Because, sure. My fiancé relocated at the same time as I did. Just not to the same address. But I’m not about to tell Noah that we broke up any more than I’d lay that news on my best friend’s door- step during her un-wedding do-over.
“Obviously, lifting heavy boxes might have triggered it,” Noah is saying. “Or trying to yank a gigantic suitcase one-handed off a baggage carousel like a maniac. Also, excess stress can tighten the muscles, which makes your body more susceptible to strain.”
Excess stress? Who’s been under excess stress?
Noah’s hands are still on me. And just the word body on his lips sends shudders through me. Shudders of revulsion, I tell myself. But even I’m not convinced.
A breeze whispers past. My T-shirt suddenly seems so thin.
He takes one last look at my shoulder, then slides his palm down the inside of my arm to my wrist, turning it over in his hand so that it’s face up. I am praying I don’t have obvious goose bumps. “Also, carpal tunnel doesn’t help because the muscles radiate through. So, if you’re doing a lot of design and layout work at the computer or even answering a bunch of emails, that can exacerbate the issue.”
Design work. Layout. Like he knows what I do.
And soon, when the news breaks about the magazine, I guess he’ll know that I don’t have a job too.
He drops my hand. And, right away, to my chagrin, I miss the contact.
“I’m hopeful that there’s not a tear. But if the pain doesn’t improve in a few days, you may need an MRI to confirm. In the meantime, I can prescribe you an anti-inflammatory and send it to the pharmacy in town to pick up today,” he is saying. “And a pain- killer if that would help.”
As much as I hate accepting help, especially from him, I have to admit that it’s convenient to have a doctor in the house—or suite, as the case may be.
“Do you have ibuprofen to take for now?” he asks.
I nod. “Thank you,” I manage. It pains me to say it almost as much as it pains me to move.
Noah stands up, so I am overcome by his shadow. It feels nice and cool outside of the sun.
He glances at my mug on the side table. Raises his eyebrows at me like, you must have really wanted to avoid me if you settled for tea.
My caffeine addiction dates way back.
“If you want actual coffee, I made some—iced actually like we both like. If you still take it that way. There’s plenty in the kitchenette. I’m going to go get dressed.”
I shrug, like I could take it or leave it. But the truth is, I will definitely take it. I am now in his debt, both for the coffee and the medical consultation, and it’s the worst.
Who is this man, so much like and also unlike the boy I knew?
Noah was always good like this, I remind myself, though sometimes it’s hard to remember through the fog of so many years— a narrative rewritten countless times and finally cemented. But is memory truth?
One thing is for sure: We were always good. Until we weren’t.
Him being caring, thoughtful, that was never the problem. Until it was.
As he walks away, I try not to watch him. His muscular back, the slope of his shoulders, his tight . . .
At the French doors to his room, he stops and looks back, and I glance quickly away like I’ve been studying my nails and not his ass.
There’s a glimmer in his eye. Like he knows.
“Nice T-shirt,” he says, then disappears inside. A minute later, “Pack the Pipe” starts to play from his room.
Was that sarcasm? An acknowledgment of our shared history? A nod to the fact that my shirt is totally transparent?
I’d ask what he meant. But there are too many whys.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

The author of the “sexy, smart, and sweetly satisfying” (Meg Cabot, #1 New York Times bestselling author) Pick-Up returns with a second chance romance perfect for fans of Emily Henry and Abby Jimenez! Exes are thrown together at their best friends’ wine country un-wedding and forced to reckon with their past…and lingering sparks.

Nellie Hurwitz doesn’t have a first love. She has a first hate: Noah-who-may-not-be-named. And she has refused to talk about what imploded their relationship since it ended abruptly near the end of high school.

For two decades, Nellie and Noah have managed to avoid seeing each other—but the gig is up when their respective best friends, Ben and Cara, plan an intimate vow renewal at a vineyard compound in Sonoma, California.

Nellie is determined to keep ancient history from ruining the trip Cara has worked so hard to plan—but dangerously close quarters bring up feelings both Nellie and Noah have carefully locked away for years. Even amidst the eye rolls, snipes and awkwardness of their forced proximity, the two can’t shake the heady attraction they’ve always shared.

Written in alternating timelines, teenage Nellie and Noah fall together and apart in 1990s New York, while, in the present day, they grapple with whether—despite the baggage of the past—there is still something real and unfinished brewing between them.

Ultimately, can they find a way to move forward? Or will they backslide and blow things up for good?
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Meet the Author:

Nora Dahlia is a travel, style, and beauty writer whose work has appeared in The New York Times, Elle, The Wall Street Journal, Condé Nast Traveler, and Vanity Fair, among others. Nora is also a book doctor, ghostwriter, collaborator, and writing coach. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband, two kids and two fruitless lemon trees. She is the author of Backslide and Pick-Up.
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