Clutch
by
Lisa Becker
Genre:
Chick-Lit, Romantic Comedy
**Winner
of the best
romantic comedy for the 2018 American Fiction Awards!
**
*
Now with five new bonus chapters *
Clutch is
the laugh-out-loud, chick lit romance chronicling the dating
misadventures of Caroline Johnson, a single purse designer who
compares her unsuccessful romantic relationships to styles of
handbags – the “Hobo” starving artist, the “Diaper Bag”
single dad, the “Briefcase” intense businessman, etc. With
her best friend, bar owner Mike by her side, the overly-accommodating
Caroline drinks a lot of Chardonnay, puts her heart on the line,
endures her share of unworthy suitors and finds the courage to
discover the “Clutch” or someone she wants to hold onto.
What
Reviewers Are Saying:
“LOVED.
The perfect blend of sassy, smart and stylish!”
Amazon
Bestsellers Liz Fenton & Lisa Steinke
“This
book is absolutely hilarious!”
Pretty
Little Book Reviews
“I
thought the comparison to men and handbags was so
genius! Becker really knows how to write to her audience,
and this clever novel had me giggling throughout.”
Chick
Lit Plus
Clutch Excerpt
Mimi Johnson
was casually dressed in a brightly-colored blouse with enormous turquoise
jewelry and equally-oversized glasses. Despite that largesse, the only thing
truly bigger than her personality (and her bosom) was her handbag. Always
perfectly matched to her clothing, shoes, and jewelry, she was like a walking
Chico’s advertisement, if you added forty years, forty pounds, and a Virginia
Slims cigarette. From her Mary Poppins-like bag, she pulled out a box,
impeccably-wrapped in glossy pink paper with a white grosgrain ribbon bow. A
cigarette teetered between her two fingers while she produced a lung-hacking
cough.
“Open it… <cough,
cough> …sweetie. Open it,” she said to her seven-year-old great
niece, Caroline, a beautiful and vibrant girl with long blonde hair and
oversized blue eyes.
Alive with anticipation, sweet young
Caroline eagerly took the box and smiled up at Mimi. She gingerly removed the
ribbon, planning to save it for later. The glossy paper was of less interest
and she ripped through it quickly. She opened the box and gently lifted out a
hot pink purse, adorned with pale pink flowers and rhinestones. An enormous
smile overcame her. Caroline nearly set her own hair on fire from Mimi’s
cigarette as she bounded into her aunt’s arms.
“Oh, thank you, Aunt Mimi. It’s lovely.”
And that was when Caroline’s love of
handbags began. From big and loud ones that would make Mimi proud to unimposing
wristlets, from bowler bags to satchels; it didn’t matter if they were made of
canvas or calf-skin leather, were distressed or embellished with metal studs.
Hell, she didn’t care if you called them pocketbooks or purses. She just loved
them all – almost as much as she loved Mimi.
By the time she was a junior in high school
and well on her way to being class valedictorian, it was the hundreds of bags
Caroline owned that helped her conceptualize her ticket out of her suffocating
small Georgian town. She would design handbags. And it was Mimi who was her
steadfast cheerleader.
“Caroline, sweetie… <cough,
cough> …you find something you love and you just hold onto it.” It
had never mattered if Caroline was asking Mimi’s advice about a friend, lover,
or career. The advice was always the same: “Find something you love and hold
onto it.”
Mimi’s words ever-present in her mind,
Caroline headed to the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising and spent
four years in Los Angeles learning everything there was to know to pursue her
passion. Then, right out of college, she spent three years working in the
design and marketing departments of two of the world’s leading, high-end
handbag designers.
She was schooled in beauty and how to
accessorize the perfectly-coiffed women on the way to their Botox appointments.
But Caroline was pulled by the nagging feeling that the very person who had
inspired her career, Mimi, could never afford the bags she designed, even if
Caroline used her generous employee discount on Mimi’s behalf. And God forbid
Mimi would ever accept one as a gift, always preferring to give rather than
receive. But Caroline believed there was no reason for anyone to be denied the
ultimate in accessories. She saw an untapped market of designing beautiful and
affordable bags, but she just wasn’t sure she was start-up potential. Again, it
was Mimi who nudged her to learn the business side of things and apply to MBA
programs. When Caroline was accepted to Harvard Business School, Mimi, of
course, encouraged her.
“You’ve got this, sweetie. <cough, cough>,” she said. “It’s in the bag.”
•••
Caroline was sitting in Financial
Reporting and Control on her first day of Harvard classes (and yes, the class
turned out to be as boring as it sounded). That’s when she first eyed Mike, who
was wearing a faded pair of Levi jeans, a washed-out vintage Rolling Stones
T-shirt, and Converse sneakers. He oozed charisma. Turning her head away from
him and back toward the front of the lecture hall, Caroline thought that if he
were a handbag, he would be a grey leather tote – confident and dependable, but
not trying too hard.
Mike surveyed the large lecture hall as he
walked in, a Starbucks coffee cup in each hand. After descending the steps
slowly, he took a seat next to Caroline and planted one of the white and green
cups on her desk.
Flashing a wide, dimpled smile, which she
mused he reserved for getting girls to drop their panties, he said, “Here. You
look like you’re going to need this.”
“Thanks,” she replied in a suspicious tone,
turning her head sideways to look at him and raising an eyebrow.
“I’m Mike,” he said, again flashing a smile
and reaching out for a handshake.
“I’m Caroline. Thanks for the…”
“Latte.”
“Latte,” she confirmed. “Thanks. But just so
you know, I’m not gonna sleep with you,” she said in an apparent attempt to
establish up front she wasn’t taken in by his obvious charm.
“I know,” he replied matter-of-fact.
Before she could respond, Professor
Beauregard, a stout man with excessive eyebrows, spoke up. “Please take note of
where you are seated. I will send around a seating chart for you to mark your
spot. This will be your seat for the remainder of the semester.”
“Looks like we’ll be seatmates,” Mike said,
grinning at her.
“Looks like it.”
•••
About three months into the first
semester, Caroline learned that her fun-loving, easy-going, new best buddy Mike
wasn’t exactly who he appeared to be.
A blanket of white snow dusted the Harvard
grounds and it was a particularly slow day in another mutual class, LEAD –
Leadership and Organizational Behavior. Professor Moss, a frail man who weighed
less than his years, was droning on and on about establishing productive
relationships with subordinates or something to that effect. He initiated a
discussion about what works better – the carrot or stick approach.
“Mr. Barnsworth,” he called, referring to
his seating chart and scanning the room until he found Mike in the fifth row.
“What are your thoughts?”
“Well, it seems to me that good management
is all about empathy and being able to enthuse and inspire your staff. You
know, appreciating them and respecting them. Showing you care,” he said,
placing his hand over his heart in a gesture of true compassion and concern.
“And if they can’t get that through their thick skulls, you fire ‘em,” he
continued, drawing his finger across his throat.
Several students sitting around them started
to chuckle while Caroline stifled a laugh. Mike looked around the room and
nodded his head, soaking in the appreciation of his sense of humor.
“Mr. Barnsworth,” said Professor Moss in a
menacing tone, “I would have expected a better answer from you, considering
your family history.”
Confused by the conversation unfolding
before her, Caroline leaned over and whispered to Mike, “What is he talkin’
about?” Mike put up a hand to quiet her.
“Later,” he hissed.
Twenty minutes later, the two shared a bench
outside Baker Library, the chill of winter causing Caroline to pull her scarf
closer around her neck.
“What was that all about?” she asked,
scrunching up her nose in confusion.
Reluctantly, Mike began to speak. “My full
name is Michael Frederick Barnsworth the Third. My family owns a large
brokerage firm in New York,” he confessed, unsure of how Caroline would react.
Caroline listened as she took in just how
old money his family really was. Mike’s great, great, great, great – actually
it was hard to keep track of how many “greats” it went back – grandfather ran
the first Bank of the United States, which Congress chartered in the early
1800s. His family had advised presidents, dined with royalty, and amassed a
fortune that continued today through the Barnsworth Brokerage Firm.
“I’m the seventh person in my family to
attend Harvard including my father, uncle, three cousins, and grandfather, who
was a classmate of Professor Moss,” he continued.
Surprised by this unexpected news, she
joked, “So you’re just slummin’ with a simple Southern girl like me – and
makin’ me pay for drinks, mind you – until you go join the family business and
marry someone named Muffy…”
“That’s my family’s plan,” Mike laughed.
“There’s even an office in the Woolworth Building owned by my family, sitting
empty, until I finish business school,” he said reluctantly.
“But…” she pressed, touching his hand
gently, sensing the family plan may not actually be Mike’s plan – though they
had never discussed his plans before.
“I want to open a bar,” he said, matter of
fact and looking her square in the eye.
Caroline’s head leaned back as she let out a
raucous laugh. “You want to own a bar?” she questioned, her shoulders shaking
from laughter. “Now I get your goal to drink at every one of the six hundred
bars in Boston before you graduate.”
“Yup, it’s research,” he said emphatically.
“Research?”
“Yeah. Every time my parents call, which
isn’t very often – they are usually off with their snobby society friends or at
Met Balls – I tell them I’m working hard and doing research.”
“Gotta give you credit. That’s pretty
clever,” she replied, nodding her head.
“And true. If I’m going to open the best bar
ever, I need to know what works and what doesn’t.”
“Okay. I get why you don’t want to be a
wizard of Wall Street. But why a bar?” she asked, not understanding his desire
for the life of a bar back.
“My parents weren’t around a lot growing up.
My father spent more time in the office than my mother spent jetting between
boutiques in Paris and ski chalets in Switzerland. And believe me, that was a
lot,” he confessed. Caroline looked down in her lap, her heart sinking at the
thought of the small boy with the winning smile being ignored by his family.
“I was pretty much raised by a series of au pairs. My favorite was Linnea who was nineteen when she
came from Sweden to live with our family. She was obsessed with Tom Cruise
movies and we would watch them all the time,” he explained, a wistful look on
his face as he recalled fond memories.
“Cocktail!”
Caroline exclaimed.
“Yup, I want to be the sole proprietor of a
place where you can shake margaritas bare-chested,” Mike laughed. “It’s going
to be called The Last Drop,” he stated, not looking
for her approval.
“Great name,” she admitted, nodding her
head. “Especially when your folks drop kick you out of the family.”
“I know. I’m preparing to be disowned, which
is why I’m getting you used to buying the drinks,” he
said, flashing her a smile.
“Well with any luck my business will allow
me to continue payin’ for drinks.”
“The purse thing?”
“Yes. The purse thing,” she said, mocking
him. “I aim to start a line called Clutch, because it’s one of my favorite
handbag styles, and in honor of my aunt Mimi. She always says ‘Find somethin’
you love and just hold onto it.’”
“Sounds like a smart lady.”
Lisa
Becker is a romance writer who spends her time like she spends her
money - on books and margaritas. In addition to Clutch: a
novel, she is the author of the Click trilogy, a contemporary romance
series about online dating and Links, a standalone, second chance
romance readers. As Lisa’s grandmother used to say, “For
every chair, there’s a tush.” Lisa is now happily married to a
wonderful man she met online and lives in Manhattan Beach, California
with him and their two daughters. So, if it happened for her, there’s
hope for anyone! You can share your love stories with her
at www.lisawbecker.com.
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1 comment:
Thanks so much for featuring me on your blog. Appreciate the love!
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