No Love Allowed (Dodge Cove Trilogy #1) (25 page)

And readers would leave comments on the website, then they would post reviews on Goodreads. They took the cover and put it on Goodreads and were leaving comments and ratings. I
didn’t even think that was possible because it didn’t even have an ISBN, yet it was already there. That was fun.

HW: When you were chosen, how hard was it to keep the secret? I mean, we already talked about the stress baking.
. . .

KE: A thousand cupcakes, Holly!
A thousand cupcakes.

HW: How did you celebrate?

KE: My mom and I ate out, we watched a movie, and then we had copious amounts of Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra. And then, after we celebrated, I was like, “Ugh, I
have to wait a month before I can tell people!” That was when the stress baking started. I didn’t eat any of those cupcakes; I just gave them away. And people were like, “Stay
away from me, crazy woman! I don’t want your cupcakes!”

“The Writing Life”

HW: When did you realize that you wanted to be a writer?

KE: I started writing in high school because that was when we got our “write a short story” assignment. I remember my sophomore English teacher saying something
like, “You know, you have something here.” That sort of started the snowball effect of “I was complimented. That means I can do it!”

I got on my dad’s electric typewriter—that’s how old I am – and started writing. And I didn’t care about grammar or format; I just remember typing all my stories
out and then binding them on the really nice construction paper, like the hard kind that’s marbled—some of them were even scented. Then I would be so proud I’d bring them to
school. My classmates would pass them around and read them. I knew I had something when even the girls who bullied me would read my stories. They would swoon over my stories. Bad grammar, bad
spelling—I don’t even know if the stories really made sense, but people wanted to read them.

But I only really thought about writing as a career five years after college. That was when I read
Twilight
. After
Twilight
, I thought, “If she could do this, I could do
it, too!” So I said, “Mom, I’m going to be a writer.” And she was like, “Say what?” “I’m going to be a writer!” And she said,
“Okay,” and walked away. I don’t think she believed me until I finally told her, “Mom! I have a publishing contract!” And she said, “What?!” And I was
like, “I’m going to be a writer!” I think it took her five years to actually believe me.

HW: Where did the idea for
No Love Allowed
start?

KE: I like to take evening walks at the end of the day. We live up in the mountains and we live near nature, so it’s really nice to take hikes. I remember I was taking an
evening walk and I was looking up at the stars, and then suddenly this image of a girl falling off a cliff came to mind, and then the boy, who was actually a surfer waiting for a wave, sees her,
and swims over and saves her. So that was the initial image. Of course, Caleb—although I think he knows how to surf—is not necessarily the surfer boy who was first imagined for that
story.

HW: I know music is important to you. Do you create playlists for your characters or for the book as a whole?

KE: The playlist usually comes after the whole story is plotted out or after the whole novel is written. That’s when the playlists come. But there are particular stories,
like with
No Love Allowed
and Maroon 5’s “Love Somebody,” when I heard that, I automatically knew that was the story of Didi and Caleb. That song in particular,
that’s their story.

HW: What was it like getting the edit letter? Because I know that my edit letters are really long and I always feel like I have to start with the words
Don’t
panic.

KE: I love it! It’s like getting a love letter! For me, it really is. It’s like getting a love letter from your editor that shows you how you can improve your story
a hundred times over. It’s basically a road map of examples and pointers. For me, it lessens the anxiety for an author because you just have to follow it. It’s like a big load off your
shoulders. And we already have something to work with. The novel’s already been written. It’s not like the editorial letter says, “We don’t like the novel. Rewrite,
please.” You’d be thinking, “Why’d they accept my novel in the first place if they just want me to rewrite the whole thing again?” So yeah, for me it’s a love
letter.

HW: What is the very best writing advice you’ve ever heard?

KE: Write the story you want to read. That’s basically it. You know that Toni Morrison quote? “If there’s a book you really want to read, but it hasn’t
been written yet, then you must write it.” That’s always been my philosophy. Would I read this? If I’m writing this, would I read it? That’s always been my mantra from the
very beginning. No matter what I learn as a writer, I still keep going back to that.

So when I’m writing something and it doesn’t work, even if I already have two thousand words down for the chapter for that day, if I’m feeling like, “Um, it’s just
not working,” I will delete and start over. Because it always comes back to, “Would I enjoy reading it?” And as you know, when we edit, it’s not just once or twice. You have
to keep rereading and rereading until you just want to vomit the story out because it’s like, “Ugh, I can’t look at this story anymore!” You have to actually love reading it
to be able to keep rereading it as you edit. And the reader needs to feel the same way about the book: After they read it, they can’t wait to read it again.

No love allowed

Discussion Questions

Taylor

B
efore I even opened my eyes, I knew something was wrong. I wasn’t in my bed like I should be, surrounded by the cream duvet
comforter that Mom and I had gotten from Macy’s last month. The fabric under my fingertips was cool and kind of scratchy.

Evidence number two: It smelled different. Not in a
bad
way. Just not like the apple-cinnamon air freshener that Mom loved and sprayed all over the house, despite the fact that Dad and
I hated cinnamon. I usually countered it by walking around the house with vanilla tea candles. As a result, our house smelled sweeter than the largest bakery in town. Ironic, because none of us
could actually bake.

I sucked in another deep breath to be sure. Nope, there were no apples, cinnamon, or vanilla of any kind here. Instead, it smelled like cotton with a faint touch of pine and grass.

But the most damning evidence of all was the muscular, bare back of a half-naked—at least I hoped it was just half since I couldn’t see beneath the navy blanket wrapped around his
hips—guy lying beside me. Who definitely should not be in my
bed
.

“Oh god. Oh. My. God.” My voice came out in a hoarse squeak. I squeezed my eyes shut before opening them again. Once. Twice. Over and over until fuzzy stars appeared on the pale blue
ceiling—a ceiling that was also not mine—but he wouldn’t disappear.

And the stars didn’t help my throbbing head. Why hadn’t anyone warned me that drinking would make me feel like crap the next day?

With shaky hands, I peered beneath the covers and—
whoosh
—a sigh of relief escaped. Thank god I was fully clothed. If you could call the lacy black tank and capris that Carly
had stuffed me into the night before fully clothed. But besides that, everything else looked normal. Except for the strange room and the half-naked guy I was in bed with.

I was in a crapload of trouble. Why had I let Carly drag me to that party last night? (Note to self: Nothing good ever comes from listening to that girl.) But she’d caught me in a weak
moment. Granted, I had a bunch of weak moments after I got my wait-list letter from Columbia.

But seriously. Me, Taylor Simmons. Wait-listed! I still couldn’t believe it. Didn’t they know who I was? Did they even
look
at my application, for god’s sake? It was
impeccable
and
I turned it in extra early. I even had to add an extra page for my list of accomplishments. For god’s sake I should have been a shoo-in.

But the months passed, and no acceptance letter. And they didn’t respond to my e-mails and phone calls to check if the computers were down. Or if the acceptance committee was all sick and
hospital-bound. Nothing. Until finally, a measly wait-list letter last month.

Anyway, that wasn’t the point. Not really. The point was that I’d been dragged to the party . . . and then I’d left. Obviously. But where was I now? And how did I get here?
Where was Carly, and why didn’t she stop me or—

“Hmph.”
The guy flopped over onto his stomach, away from me.

Heart racing, I could barely move. My chest tightened, but I didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, until the soft snoring from his side of the bed resumed. And even then, I could only let
out short half breaths.

That was close. Too close. I needed to get out of here.
Now.

I cautiously eased off the mattress, inch by inch, wincing as the slight movement made my head pound harder. My toes touched the soft carpet, and I pushed myself upright, freezing for a full
minute every time the bed creaked.
Only a bit farther.

After what felt like hours—although it was probably only a few minutes—I slipped off the edge of the bed and took a step toward the door. Big mistake. The floor’s creak was
like a shotgun blasting across the room. The guy stirred, and I dove toward the ground, landing on the maroon carpet with a soft thump. My head smacked against my forearm.
Ouch.

What the . . . ?
A name was written on my left forearm in my curly handwriting. My name.
Taylor Simmons.
How hammered was I to scribble my own name on my arm? Seriously, what
the hell happened last night?

There was no time to think about it now. Still on my hands and knees, I stumbled around the dark room for my silver sandals. The only noise was the soft snoring from the lump on the bed.

Still . . . who
was
my partner in crime? Could it be someone I knew, or was it—holy crap—a random guy I met at the party? Was I a harlot like in those Regency romance novels
I hid in the back of my nightstand?