Spotlight & Giveaway: Code Word Romance by Carlie Walker

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author Carlie Walker to HJ!

Hi Carlie and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, Code Word Romance!

Thank you for having me! I’m excited to be here.
 

Please summarize the book for the readers here:

Max never thought her uncanny resemblance to a European prime minister would land her on the Amalfi Coast dodging assassins. But when the CIA offers her a fortune to impersonate Sofia Christensen, she can’t say no! Her bodyguard, Flynn, complicates things—especially with their sizzling history. Between sun-drenched beaches, breathtaking views, and life-or-death stakes, Max risks losing more than her cover—she might lose her heart.
 

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

I don’t want the touch of his hand, the press of his body, to send an electric current across my skin, but dammit, there it is. An undeniable, dangerous spark. From less than two inches away, I watch the steady pulse near the freckles at the base of his throat, and have to admit to myself that—in this little protective pocket—I have never felt safer in my life.
Having a bodyguard is one thing.
It’s another thing because it’s him.

Please share a few Fun facts about this book…

• I pulled from my background living in Maine, my experience in the restaurant industry, and my own brush with intelligence services!
• It takes place in my favorite setting ever: breathtakingly beautiful Italy.
• I wrote the book when I was heavily pregnant and craving pasta!
• The working title of the book was “The Getaway.” (Both a vacation, and getting away from assassins!)

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

Max and Flynn knew each other one sun-drenched summer in Maine, ages ago. They never quite expected to meet again on a dangerous CIA mission! She definitely shouldn’t be attracted to his cool, calm demeanor and his wit; he loves how passionate she is about her dreams.

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

My favorite character in this book is Max’s stoner roommate, Calvin, who gets *way* too involved in this mission. Any scene with him in it had me cracking up! Here’s his initial description:

“When I first met him, he reminded me of that strange roommate in Notting Hill, the one who hotboxes in his scuba suit. Only, Calvin has exceptional hair. He briefly moonlighted as a hair model before finding his calling as an employee of the York county tax bureau—and, like Notting Hill man, is also perpetually high.”

Readers should read this book….

Because it’s a really fun mix of high-stakes espionage and swoon-worthy romance set against the stunning backdrop of the Amalfi Coast. I’ve thrown in a few twists that hopefully you won’t see coming! And if you’re a fan of Glen Powell . . . let’s just say he might’ve inspired one of the characters. (Hint: it’s the love interest.)

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

Currently I’m working on a project that’s a bit of a new direction for me, so I can’t say much! But it’s been a wonderful challenge.
 
 

Thanks for blogging at HJ!

Giveaway: One finished copy of CODE WORD ROMANCE by Carlie Walker

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Excerpt from Code Word Romance:

Night air slaps my face. We’re speeding faster on the motorcycle, swerving around a restaurant with patio tables, and I accidentally clip one, rattling several plates full of antipasti. A glass of Aperol spritz topples. Blood-orange liquid stains the napkins, and— “Sorry! Scusa!” I say, both words emerging with a wheeze. No time to stop, though. I’m too focused, too rattled, too aware of Flynn’s fingers, which are digging—harder now—into the curve above my hipbones.

“This may be a bad time to tell you!” I shout over my shoulder, unable to stem the terror in
my voice. “But I’ve never driven a motorcycle before!”

“You think?” Flynn bleats out, and immediately I picture his face, how his pupils must be
dilating with every dangerous zip of acceleration. “Make a left! Left, Max!”

“I’m trying!” I fire back, easing up on the throttle for just a second, and . . . where’s the turn
signal on this thing? Don’t be stupid, Max. They shouldn’t know I’m turning! Makes it more difficult to follow me. Before the traffic light flashes green, I bite the inside of my cheek and just go, blasting across the intersection to a symphony of horns. A man stops short in his Fiat, yelling out the window, “Morire, signora!”

I don’t speak much Italian, but I know that one. Die, lady.

Unfortunately, Fiat man isn’t the only one who wishes me dead.

My grip tightens on the motorcycle handlebars. “Are they still following us?”

Flynn checks, the hard plane of his stomach pressed against my back. He’s warm, like Italian
summer, and I feel the way his body moves: a sharp head-flick, a quick glance at the trailing cars.
“Three of them now.”

Three? A peek at my mirrors reveals—Flynn’s right. Two black cars, probably bulletproof,
and someone following them on a Vespa. Which almost makes me laugh. Driving a Vespa to an
assassination is like bringing a loofah stick to a swordfight.

At least no one is shooting at us.

“Any second,” Flynn shouts over the traffic, “they’re going to start shooting at us.”

“Well . . . shit!” I say, because it’s the only thing I can get out. I’m usually more articulate than
this. More composed than this. To be fair, though, it’s only seven o’clock at night—the summer sky
has just turned a dusky pink; I haven’t even had my evening gelato—and two separate people have
already tried to kill me.

Or rather, two people have tried to kill Sofia.

Flynn slips his hands tighter around my waist, gripping me closer, almost cradling me—and
I’m not thinking about it. Not thinking about the heat of him; the crisp, clean scent of him; the look
on his face two nights ago when he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, letting the fabric pool in a puddle
on the floor—or the way my cheek brushed against the bare skin of his chest as he held me. At this
moment, I know that Flynn is just holding on for the ride. Just praying that I don’t end the
assignment this way. This can’t be how it ends. The two of us, crashing into a porchetta stand by the Campo de’ Fiori, or losing control outside of the Piazza del Paradiso, toppling into a group of
tourists who’ll click, click, click their cameras. Then, front-page news. International news. PRIME
MINISTER OF SUMMERLAND VICTIM OF TRAGIC ACCIDENT BEFORE EVEN MORE TRAGIC
ASSASINATION. Or something snappier than that. That’s a terribly uncreative headline.

“Take the Via Dei Baullari.” Flynn’s breath caresses my ear, words almost eaten by the hum
of the motorcycle.

“You say that like I know where that is!”

“On your right!”

“When on my right?” I bat back, weaving past a Lamborghini and a jewelry store, shiny gold
rings winking at us in the windows.

Flynn’s chin is almost resting on my shoulder. “Now! Now!”

We make a hard turn, tires gripping the ancient road, and I have a flash of how others are
seeing us—a woman in a bright-cream pantsuit and heels, a man in a dashing beige jacket, and
busted-up bike that looks newly rescued from a second-rate junkyard. Cars and a Vespa chasing
after them. Bullets soon to fly through the air. This isn’t how my Italian getaway was supposed to
go, was it?

No. No, it wasn’t.

It would be easy, they said. Straightforward, they said. Just sit there, and look polished, and
don’t open your mouth. Shake hands with the right people. Smile politely but not like an American; not too wide, not with too many teeth. Do what you’re told, and it’ll feel like a vacation. Don’t you want a vacation, Max? A simple job in beautiful Italy.

That was before the disastrous TV broadcast. Before the incident at the museum gala.
Before I met Flynn again, and my whole world turned upside-down.

“They’re gaining on us,” he says, once again into my ear. It’s obvious; Flynn is trying hard to
steady his voice, trying to be the cool and calm one in this scenario. Despite this, something in his
throat gutters. “Our best chance is to make a sharp turn somewhere, pull off where they can’t see.
Confuse them. Let them pass us . . .”

“Where are the police?” I gasp out. “Where’s the armed escort? They should be—”

“There,” Flynn says, but he’s talking about a gap between buildings. A little nook by a flower
shop, just large enough for a motorcycle. I take the chance, jamming on the brakes, back tire
skidding to the left. My pulse hammers in my ears, climbs higher as we slip into the alleyway. I cut
the engine. Thick stone walls bare down on us, and the air smells like . . . focaccia. Flowers and
focaccia, yeasty and sweet, but I hold my breath. As if our hunters can hear me. As if one tiny sniffle
will give me up.

Luckily, it’s a Saturday night in Rome. The streets are stuffed with distractions. Above the
sound of tourists laughing, horns beeping, gallery doors squeaking open and closed, there’s the
distinct noise of two armored cars rattling by the alleyway, fast. Followed by a Vespa, zzzz-zip, even faster.

Behind me, Flynn also seems to be holding his breath. His stillness is palpable, not a muscle
moving. As soon as the vehicles pass, he loosens a little, whispering, “Close call.”

I swallow, gathering myself, feeling blood return to the tips of my fingers. I unclench my
fists from the handlebars. “What now?”

I’m asking Flynn, although my body already knows. I’m already swinging my leg off the bike,
stamping the ground, travelling forward on foot. We can’t stay here long. We can’t wait for them to
reach the main road again, figure out what we’ve done, and throw their cars in reverse . . .
I shrug off the cream blazer, about to ditch it in the street, when—at the other end of the
alleyway, no less than thirty feet ahead—someone appears. A shadowy silhouette in the dying sun, moving to block the exit.

My heart claws at my throat.

This person . . . there’s a knife in their hand.

And I know them.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

One fake prime minister, one ridiculously hot handler, and one Italian summer collide in this thrilling adventure rom-com.

Max is just your average girl. She works odd jobs, has a soul-crushing amount of debt, and happens to bear an uncanny resemblance to Europe’s youngest female prime minister, Sofia Christensen. Sofia is powerful, beautiful—and unfortunately, someone is trying quite hard to assassinate her.

When the CIA approaches Max with a deal, a life-changing amount of money if she pretends to be Sofia on the prime minister’s annual Italian vacation, Max packs her bags for the Amalfi Coast. The delicious food, the breathtaking views—this trip would be a dream if it weren’t for those pesky assassins and Flynn, the handler assigned to Max’s case. Flynn, who has an unexpected history with Max, from another sun-drenched summer years and years ago. Now he’s instructed to stay in Max’s suite to protect her, as old passions and assassins collide.

Losing herself in the role of a prime minister is one thing. But losing her heart to Flynn again? Now that’s a risk she isn’t willing to take . . .
Book Links: Amazon | B&N |
 
 

Meet the Author:

Carlie Walker attended the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where she first majored in Peace, War and Defense, a feeder program for intelligence services—before realizing that she is way too anxious to be a spy. Having gone on to study at Oxford University and at City, University of London, she worked briefly in publishing before becoming the bestselling author of seven books for children and young adults. She has a registered 250-pound dead lift, volunteers in a cat shelter, and used to spend her Saturdays practicing martial arts. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband, young son, and their American dingo.
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