Spotlight & Giveaway: Wreck My Plans by Cindi Madsen

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author Cindi Madsen to HJ!

Hi Cindi and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, Wreck My Plans!

Thank you, so happy to be here on Harlequin Junkie, who’s helped support me since my very first book.
 

Please summarize the book a la Twitter style for the readers here:

After a PR nightmare dubbed #PantyGate, Mia Andrews loses her job, her reputation, and her dignity—then moves into her grandma’s Florida retirement community, where the notorious residents are nosy, stubborn, and aggressively invested in her love life.
Meddling retirees. Two hot bachelors. One unforgettable summer.
 

Please share the opening lines of this book:

There’s nothing quite like getting fired and spending six weeks scouring Miami for a new job, only to end up declaring defeat, to make you reevaluate your life choices.
As I drive along the familiar, palm-tree-lined road on the opposite side of the Floridian peninsula, my battered confidence rattles around, complaining as loud as my car’s engine. Not sure why the motor gets to whine when I’m the one who’s had to work the pedals while needing to pee for the last twenty-seven minutes.
This three-and-a-half-hour drive has given me too much time to think, to relive sitting across from my now-former boss, dragging my palms down my pleated skirt and sweating so much my antiperspirant didn’t stand a chance.
Anyone who says all publicity is good publicity has never had to come up with an explanation for a stray pair of underwear.

Please share a few Fun facts about this book…

• It’s dedicated to my grandmothers.
• My grandmother was one of my best friends.
• I lived with this large group of grandmas for a year as I told their story, which is rare for me, but made me love them all the more.
• I put my anxiety & OCD into the book, as I rarely see OCD rep, and it’s something I’m proud of.

What first attracts your main characters to each other?

It’s rare that I have two love interests, but each of them call to a certain side of Mia, and it’s really figuring out who she is and wants to be that determines who she wants to be with.
 

Using just 5 words, how would you describe your main characters”love affair?

Funny, swoony, bumpy-lol, sweet, sexy.
 

The First Kiss…

“You never contacted me about that date.” All my willpower to remain in the here and now has been in vain. With the words out in the air, leaving my chest achy and raw, I will him to confirm whether it was the project, if he’d lost interest until I was convenient again, or if I’d misread pretty obvious signals.

“I should’ve. Jan mentioned you wanted the gardens finished by the open house, so I…” He rakes his fingers through his hair, leaving it adorably disheveled as his eyes lock on mine. “I will. I just wanted you to have what you needed first.”

My heart flip-flops in my chest, and I say, “Thank you for that,” in spite of Jan ascribing deadlines I hadn’t given. Although, for the record, by the open house would be my preference for everything. At last check, occupancy rates were at 76 percent, very much improved, but far enough to go that it put additional pressure on these last few weeks. “You keep showing up.”

One corner of his mouth lifts in his signature half smile. “How else am I supposed to keep track of what you’re up to?”

I cluck my tongue. “Don’t you mean our grandparents?”

“No,” he answers without missing a beat. “Lately, my focus has definitely been on you.”

“Even before the red lipstick and curly hair?”

He groans as his gaze roves over me, the dilating of his pupils swallowing up most of the blue.

“It’s more about the mouth and everything you say with it.”

Noah drives his long fingers into my hair, lifting it off my neck and grazing his nose across the sensitive skin as he takes a long inhale. The low noise he makes in the back of his throat robs me of oxygen, his voice a sexy grumble that turns my insides molten. “That determined gleam in your eye that means you’re about to let me have it.” His lips skim the fluttering pulse point where my neck meets my jaw. “And just when I think I can’t take it anymore, you go and f*cking smile or laugh and I…”

Twinkle lights reflect in the dark pools of his eyes and, using his thumbs, he tilts my face to his. “I come undone.”

The unfettered desire in his features threatens to do the same to me, and rather than panic and throw up a wall of awkwardness neither one of us can break through, I lean into the confidence I’ve been rebuilding and lick my lips.

Even better, it’s easier to pull off the come-hither move than it’s ever been. Thanks to Sophia springing the photo shoot news on me yesterday, I read dozens of reviews from women who raved their photography sessions left them empowered and more in touch with their sensual side, but I figured they were from women like her, who were comfortable in the boudoir already.

“Hmm. They were right about the confidence boost,” I mutter, and Noah’s brow crinkles in response, so I speak aloud the inside thoughts that didn’t stay put. “It’s why I’m so made up—I got talked into one of those boudoir photography sessions, and I’ve never felt so pretty before.”

“But you’re gorgeous.” Noah states it as a fact, no wiggle room.

“I don’t always feel that way.” A nervous laugh titters out, my discomfort with taking compliments making it impossible to graciously accept them. “Strike that, I never feel this way.”

“That doesn’t make any sense to me.” The grooves between his eyebrows deepen as he continues staring at me, suggesting he’s genuinely perplexed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I was livid when I charged into your seminar.”

“Gee, why ever would I take that the wrong wa—”

Noah places a finger to my lips, cutting off the rest, and gently says, “I wasn’t finished.”
I cross my arms with an exaggerated harrumph, so the biddies’ dramatics are obviously wearing off on me.

He leans a fraction of an inch closer, and my heart flitters like a hummingbird all hopped-up on nectar. “And as I stood in the back of the gym seething,” he says, “all I could think was, ‘why does she have to be so hot?’”

“Well, it’s Florida, so—”

“Nope, nice try, though.” His heated breath stirs the hair at my temples, goosebumps erupting at the enticing contrast of soft lips and scruff against the lobe of my ear. “Every exchange since, I’ve thought it again and again. Why does she have to be so fucking hot?”
An ache pulses to life between my thighs, leaving me squirmingly aware of the diminutive amount of silk and lace to my thong.

I turn my head, my lips rasping his whiskered cheek as I whisper my bold line into his skin. “I’m still wearing the lingerie from the photoshoot.”

Noah goes completely still, save the steely fingers that dig into my hip.
I wait for the bashfulness to hit but instead find a level of do-not-give-a-f*ckedness that both intrigues and worries me.

But then Noah’s mouth claims mine in a heated kiss, the swipe of his tongue rendering me entirely incapable of thought, even before he commands with his lips still against mine, “Show me.”

Without revealing too much, what is your favorite scene in the book?

There’s a scene where Mia’s grandma’s get her high (she’s about to deliver one of their comedy routines for them at a club) and it makes me laugh every time.

“It keeps spilling out,” Bette remarks, as if our entire ragtag group of grannies, one grumpy grandson, and moi, can’t see for ourselves it’s not going well. For the sake of discretion, they’d instructed our designated driver to park in the abandoned lot opposite the comedy club.
“You’re supposed to lick the paper,” Leora says, raising onto her toes to peer over the top of Wanda’s and Gertie’s bent heads.
Ruth nods in agreement. “That’s how they do it on TV.”
They do? What the hell’s she watching?
“The last time I rolled a joint, I ended up having to use a walker for a month,” Bette snarks, the comedienne within warming up to sit the bench.
I kind of hoped finding out the glamma squad expected me to perform standup at the club’s open mic night would be the most stressful part of my evening, but no, they’ve gone and turned the back of the bubbies’ van with the sticky seats into a quickie pot shop.
Seats twelve! With three rows for your grandchildren and extra storage room for your hash and bongs!
“Where’d you get it?” Leora had asked when Wanda unfurled a baggie with glee.
“Gladys P. from bridge club. She’s battled two types of cancer, so she gets the primo medical grade.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” I’d said, covering my ears with my palms, and Noah had given me a sidelong glance rife with amusement.
Designated driver, my ass.
Sure, the bubbies’ giant grandkid van might’ve been a bit intimidating to maneuver around unfamiliar streets, but I could’ve figured it out and said as much back at Arlene’s—as long as Noah remained behind.
It’s one thing to make a fool of myself in front of an audience filled with strangers and my grandmothers; I never signed up for performing in front of a guy who won’t stop crossing my mind.
Naturally, the grandmas had thrown our bargain in my face and promised a surprise once we arrived at our destination that would help me relax. But do you know what I’m not right now?
Frigging relaxed.
How can I be with Noah in my orbit?
He gives me heart palpitations with his infuriatingly smug smiles, winding me up even tighter than I already am, yet there’s the promise of all the delightsome spinning. No amount of planning or preparation would be enough to figure out what the guy might say or do next, and it leaves me completely discombobulated. In a way I also sorta enjoy?
Still, if I could separate my consciousness from my body for this next task, I’d flee as far and as fast as I could.
“It’s not going to seal if you pack it so full,” Vonetta says, the concerned crinkles between her eyebrows hinting she’s not wholly onboard, either.
“I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeves yet, Mrs. Harris-Wagner.” Gertie tightens the ends of the paper with small, meticulous movements. “I’m gonna tell you the same thing you say to me in the kitchen. Let the expert work.”
“Vaping’s much easier,” Sophia so helpfully provides, swapping her shades for the frames with clear lenses atop her head. “Just a push of a button.”
“Nah, I prefer it straight from the leaf, as close to nature as you can get.” Gertie secures the ends and pops the marijuana cigarette between pursed lips. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
“Plus, this is more nostalgic.” Wanda slings her arm around Grandma Helen, and my mouth drops open.
“Grandma!”
“Careful,” Noah says from my side, almost boastful in how jovial he is about having a front row seat to my impending humiliation. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re yelling at a grandparent.”
I open my mouth to let the smartass have it, but no witty retort comes out, so I’m left like a fish out of water, just gaping at the situation I’ve landed myself in.
Flick, flick, flame goes the lighter as Gertie tokes up and then passes to Bette. “It’s your big night, after all.”
Bette inhales and coughs, waving the smoky air in front of her as Leora takes a puff.
“It just wasn’t done in my day, women touring from city to city.” For a dream Bette claims she’s had her entire life, this is the first I’ve heard of it, and I sometimes suspect they’re cooking up the wildest of pursuits for amusement. “Sure, there were a few outliers: Gilda Radner, ‘Moms’ Mabley, and Carol Burnette.
“Those women are the reason I sweet-talked a stagehand at the county fair into letting me warm up the audience for the next band. This man began heckling me a few jokes in, booing and hollering that women aren’t funny, and I…” Her voice cracks, and it’s so obviously a core wound, guilt twangs over even my mental dismissal. “I always wondered what would’ve happened if I didn’t let him run me off that stage.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” I say softly. “This is exactly why you should do it.”
Bette’s lower lip pops out in an exaggerated pout, and I do my best to avoid her puppy-dog gaze. “Oh, so you’ll help everyone but me live out their dreams and regrets?”
“Whoa there, no reason to start tossing out allegations. It’s a lot of pressure living out anyone’s dreams and regrets, nor am I able to do so.” I just felt like that needed to be said, regardless of audience inattention or lack of participation. “I’ll hold up my end of the bargain, and I promise I’ll go in there and give it my best…”
Gertie and Leora get the giggles, so I have to raise my voice.
“But you have to prepare for the reality of people not laughing or connecting with the material, not because it’s not funny, but because I’m no good at being in the spotlight or delivering jokes.”
“You’re funny,” Bette counters, stifling her laughter only to titter and lose it again.
At the same time, Sophia says, “You’re more of an acquired taste,” demurely blowing smoke from her nostrils while shredding my ego.
Great, I’m beer. Not a fancy craft brew that’s been curated by lumberjack hipsters, either. I go down hard, no notes of anything besides yeasty sourness.
“I’ve written out my set for you,” Bette says as if that’s my primary concern in this bizarre scenario. While I spend a lot of my time around her laughing, I have no idea how her jokes will translate over a microphone in a nightclub, where people have come to be entertained.
How awesome is it that I’ll get to find that out while standing onstage in the middle of the spotlight?
“Your turn.” Wanda swings the smoking joint toward me, and I don’t have the heart to tell them this is my first time.
What can I say? I’m a rule follower with complicated issues toward authority figures, so even the idea of taking a puff kickstarts my guilty conscience and heart rate.
“We’d never pressure you, but smoking dope helps turn down the volume.” Grandma Helen plucks the doobie from Wanda’s pinched fingers and brings it to her mouth for an inhale. She holds in the breath, demonstrating, but also providing an out if I want it. “It takes off that edge.”
What if all I have are edges? I want to ask, because turning down the volume has been my deepest desire since the dawn of my intrusive thoughts.
I suppose there’s only one way to see if I like “smoking dope,” which is such a goofy way to say it, so I assume the position and pause as instructed so Gertie can relight the tip.
I breathe in fire and transform into a dragon in an instant, smoke billowing out around me as I hack and cough. My eyes water, probably relocating my charcoal liner and mascara to my cheeks, but I’m caring less and less by the second.
“You okay?” Noah’s grinning at me, a hint of mockery in his tone and the curve of his mouth.
I smile back, a high-pitched titter spilling out. That causes another wave of laughter to roll through the group, and seconds elongate and merge together as we puff, puff, pass.
My head feels pleasantly floaty, my mind blissfully quiet, and would it be weird to congratulate Arlene on having such an attractive grandson? He’s legit such a gentleman as he herds us toward the entrance of the club, even though I can sense his exasperation when Sophia, Ruth, and Rita get distracted by a shiny red sports car in the well-lit parking lot.
The unamused bouncer with the “Mr. Clean Haircut,” as Leora loudly pronounces him, stamps our hands. We’re still cackling over it as we spill inside the Laugh Shack, and the vibes are so great, I suddenly feel ready for wherever the night takes us.
Even with my brain stuffed with fuzzy cotton, I’m not delusional enough to think I’ll nail Bette’s routine. But when I bomb, and the crew and audience members ask why did I get so high before taking the stage, I’m totally telling them my grandmother and her friends peer pressured me into it.

If your book was optioned for a movie, what scene would be absolutely crucial to include?

The willow tree kissing scene.

Noah shakes his head at me, pretending he’s not amused, so I grin wider and lean more heavily against his side. I can’t get over how he automatically wraps an arm around me and tucks me there, as though we’ve done this a dozen other times before. Maybe I’m still more under-the-influence than I realize, although it’s definitely more about my companion than the cocktails.

“I’ve got an idea,” he says, but doesn’t expand. The guy says infuriatingly little in general, yet I hang on every word. I counted down the minutes till I’d see him again, despite not knowing how many there’d be, and it was so unlike me to get so swept away without reason.

Maybe I’m still more under-the-influence than I realize, because I just go along with it rather than insist on the details, although it’s definitely more about my companion than the cocktails. There’s also something extra delightful about watching the ridiculous pink bird dangle and swing in his grip as he helps me into the passenger side and quickly rounds the stumpy hood.

Once he’s behind the steering wheel, I slide across the vinyl bench seat and drag a fingertip over that fascinating line in his forearm. “Okay, confession time: I wasn’t sure I wanted you at bingo tonight…but I’m glad you came.”

His fingers barely graze my knee, a teasing of electricity before his palm brands my inner thigh. “Why, Mia Andrews, are you coming on to me?”

Flirting’s never been my strong suit, but I bat my false lashes and twirl a curl around my finger. “What, too bold for you?”

I’m obsessed with the slow spread of his grin, and how it makes me feel like I’m in on a secret only the two of us know. His gaze comes to rest on my mouth, and he sways closer and says in a deep, husky voice, “Not with that lipstick.”

Seconds elongate and merge, a roaring river in my ears that separates us from the rest of the universe, and my eyes flutter shut. I’m thinking any moment he’ll kiss me when his hand falls away and the engine purrs to life.

Noah depresses the pedal, and we’re off, driving up the trail that skirts the golf course, a high-pitched whine trailing along after.

Around the seventh hole, he veers off course, down a trail overgrown in places. I flinch at the occasional scrape of branches, even though they can’t touch me, and Noah drapes his arm around my shoulders and curls me protectively closer.

The shrubbery thins, and we pop out on the northeast corner of the property where they used to hold sunrise yoga before attendance dwindled right along with the residents. At last glance, the meadow had become an untamable jungle—especially to someone with the unfortunate knowledge that overgrown vegetation provides an ideal habitat for snakes, and given the python invasion in the Everglades, this gal’s decided you really can’t be too careful.

*Hold up. When did this get here?* There are signs of upturned patches, baby plants, and newness everywhere, and I pride myself on knowing what’s going on in my village.

Not, like, my village, but the property I manage for work.

I’m totally not getting my streams crossed, but I’m also glad I don’t have to be my usual, sensible self tonight, because it feels as though we’ve wandered into an enchanted fairy garden. Strings of twinkle lights ring the gnarled trunk of a gumbo limbo tree that can’t be much taller than me, and a stone walkway winds through the drought-resistant plants and gravel.

A small pond surrounded by rock sits off to the right, with a mini waterfall that flows into a tinier pond with koi fish and water lilies. As we putter past, Noah explains that plants play a critical role in filtering a pond, in addition to providing necessary shade for the hot summer months.

“My main goal is to decrease water use while increasing pollinators.” Using the runoff from the surrounding vegetation, he’s built a self-sustaining ecosystem, down to the solar lights that provide a soothing golden glow. “It took me a while to get the good ol’ boys at the city onboard, but we’re a third of the way there.”

The passion for his career rings through, ambition a trait I hadn’t attributed to him without even bothering to find out. I ask how he got into the business, and he makes a joke about his love of playing in the mud and finding plants easier to get along with than most people.
As we round the corner, I catch sight of sectioned off plots of earth, soil recently overturned.

Flanking either side are a dozen raised flowerbeds that catapult my excitement to the next level and leave me bouncing in my seat. “So the residents can garden?”

“That’s the idea,” Noah says.

I can definitely envision the gang out here. Vonetta would walk the rows, unable to stop herself from giving advice, while Gertie went along and assured everyone they were doing great; Bette would crack jokes as the bubbies reaped enough organic produce to feed their brood of grandchildren; and Grandma Helen would water and till with precision while Wanda dug her nails full of dirt getting in touch with Mother Nature.

“Hire a landscaper and then insist on doing the labor yourself,” Noah says with a baffled shake of his head, so I keep it to myself that the idea for a community garden was mine. I pitched the idea to Jan a couple of weeks ago, after researching the wellness benefits and conducting a poll that suggested a high level of interest in renting beds—it brought in another revenue stream without much extra work, and admittedly, I thought it’d been a stroke of genius.

Jan hadn’t indicated much interest, nor did she reply to my follow-up email. Lately she’s been fairly MIA, so I’m just happy she took on an action item and that it’s already done so I can cross it off.

“Well, you’re giving us such a discount,” I tease Noah. “It only seems fair we have the residents do some of the work, too.”

His chuckle and light pinch of my thigh send my pulse on a high-speed race. My stomach lifts as we careen around the pond, the golf cart headed in the opposite direction I expected. I cling to his arm, wrapping as much of me around him as I can as we drive through the droopy branches of a weeping willow.

A few yards shy of the trunk, Noah flips our vehicle around, pointing us so we’re staring out at the pond and the soft glow of the solar lights. Leafy green curtains sway in the breeze, semi-obscuring our view and leaving us partially hidden as well.

As the noise from the engine fades, nature sounds filter through. Birds, frogs, and crickets are getting noisy about their mating calls. I can’t exactly blame them, as everything inside me screams longing and desire, too. “What you’ve done with this space, Noah, it’s beautiful. How long have you been at it?”

He twists to face me fully, his knees caging mine. “Jan zoomed up to me when I was in the middle of trimming rosebushes a couple of Saturdays ago, and suddenly I’m building side-by-side zen and community gardens, which I gotta say, don’t seem like they’d go well together.”
I laugh. “Dude, she does that. Whenever I hear the motor of her scooter, I steel myself for all sorts of wild scenarios, and yet I’m never prepared.”

We both snicker at that.

“I thought I was getting better at drawing boundaries.” I sigh and melt against him. “Turns out, I just wasn’t around any manipulators over the age of sixty.”

His huff of laughter shakes his broad shoulders, and I get a contact high, suddenly sixteen again. “You’re not kidding. I earned my reputation in this city as the guy who says no, end of sentence. But then my grandparents split up, and somehow, I’ve become their go-between and errand boy.”

We’re holding hands again, and this time he initiated, snatching it off my lap and toying with my fingers.

I focus on the euphoric drag and the building heat, both beneath my skin and radiating outward. My mission tonight is to live in the present, and Noah Drayton certainly looks like a gift I’d like to unwrap.

Readers should read this book …

Because it’s basically a love letter to grandmas, with a ton of Taylor Swift references and Easter eggs thrown in.

What are you currently working on? What other releases do you have planned?

I’m working on a book with two sisters that takes place in Scotland, and also working on a fun sci-fi project.

Thanks for blogging at HJ!

Giveaway: $15 Amazon giftcard

To enter Giveaway: Please complete the Rafflecopter form and Post a comment to this Q: What’s one of your favorite memories of your grandma or grandpa?

Excerpt from Wreck My Plans:

Refusing to lose control of a situation I’ve now got
semi-in-hand, I clear my throat and add, “Remember that
communication is the gateway to safe discussions about safe
sex. So please, don’t be afraid to ask.”

There’s a perceptible shift in the air I don’t understand…

And then, “Yeah, I’ve got a question.” The deep
voice rumbles from the back of the room, coming from a
guy standing in half shadow as if he’s the Phantom of the
Gymnasium.

Something about the timbre and his profile tickles my
brain and prickles the hairs on my skin.

His booming footsteps bring him closer, intensifying the
skittering beats of my heart. Without sunlight gleaming off
the paler strands in his beard, his scruff appears darker—
as does his temperament—and I thought he’d been surly
before.

Blond and Burly and Dr. Dimples both here at the same
time—what are the odds? And as much as I’ve prepared for
tonight, whatever he asks, I know I won’t be ready.
With my stomach twisting in knots and my tongue
gluing itself to the roof of my mouth, I get a harsh reminder
that I’m better at pulling strings behind the scenes. This
feels too daunting, even from my raised position onstage.

His lips part, and I tell myself not to focus on how nicely
his whiskers frame his rugged features and contrast the soft
pink of his mouth.

He thrusts a crumpled paper in the air and, between the
neon yellow and the loud, blocky font I changed thirteen
times for readability, I instantly recognize the flyer I made
and distributed for tonight’s event. “Are you the one telling
my grandma she needs to get laid?”

“Noah,” Arlene chides in a harsh whisper, and I’m
connecting the familial dots as she throws a hand to her
pinkening face.

My response pops out before I can think better of it.

“Technically, I’m just teaching her how to get safely laid.

Excerpts. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

Age isn’t a number.
It’s a state of chaos.

When publicist Mia Andrews becomes the face of a viral disaster dubbed #PantyGate, her career implodes along with her reputation.

Now jobless and single, Mia lands in the last place she expected—her grandmother’s anything-but-quiet retirement community in Florida. It’s chaos. It’s hilarious. It’s exactly what she didn’t know she needed.

Even worse? The meddling retirees are determined to fix Mia’s love life. Somehow, they find time to play matchmaker—with not one but two bachelors under thirty-five.

But amid the mayhem, Mia’s learning that the best second chances come when—and where—you least expect them.

For fans of witty banter, lovable troublemakers, and slow-burn romance, this is the laugh-out-loud novel that proves love never gets old.
Book Links: Amazon |
 
 

Meet the Author:

Cindi Madsen is a USA Today bestselling author of laugh-out-loud romantic comedies packed with witty banter, heart, and swoony ever-afters. When she’s not dreaming up awkward en-counters and almost kisses, she’s forgetting why she entered a room, singing the wrong lyrics to songs, and burning dinner. She lives in Colorado with her husband, three kids, and two mischievous kitties.
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