Morning all~ 🍕
A cheesy pizza welcome to the Blog Tour for It’s Kind of a Cheesy Love Story by Lauren Morrill! So delighted I could be part of the tour, I love pizza, I love cheesy love stories (especially when they are punny). So quee!
For today’s Tour I got an excerpt from the book, book/author information, and I also got a giveaway (sorry, US/CAN only).
Let’s get touring~ hands out 🍕
A delicious love story with all the toppings, Lauren Morrill’s It’s Kind of a Cheesy Love Story is a contemporary YA rom-com about love, friendship, and pizza, perfect for fans of Becky Albertalli and Jenny Han.
After her mother gave birth to her in the bathroom of a local pizzeria, Beck has been given the dubious privilege of having minor fame, free pizza for life, and a guaranteed job when she turns sixteen—a job she unfortunately can’t afford to turn down.
Now she’s stuck with her geeky co-workers instead of taking Instagram-ready shots with her best friends (and her epic crush).
But maybe the pizza people aren’t all bad. Maybe that pizza delivery guy is kind of cute. And maybe there’s a way to make this Bathroom Baby thing work for her. Because when disaster strikes the beloved pizza place that’s started to feel like home, she’s going to need a miracle—one that might even mean bringing her two worlds together.
Buy this book here: Amazon
About the author:
Find her here:
LAUREN MORRILL grew up in Maryville, Tennessee, where she was a short-term Girl Scout, a (not so) proud member of the marching band, and a trouble-making editor for the school newspaper. She graduated from Indiana University with a major in history and a minor in rock & roll, and now lives in Macon, GA with her husband and sons.
But when we walk around the side where the bathrooms are, there’s a strip of yellow caution tape looping around the door handle of the men’s room and sweeping across to loop around the handle to the women’s out of order reads a crumpled sign printed on neon yellow paper.
“Crap,” I mutter, because now that I’m faced with the possibility of holding it, I’m realizing that I really don’t think I can.
“It’s fine, there are porta potties,” Tristan says, pointing to a row of them, forest green with white roofs a few paces behind the concession stand.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “No way.”
“I’m not using a porta potty. I’d sooner pee my pants.”
“Are you serious? Why not?”
“Because they smell like a hell mouth. Because I’ve seen those viral stories about snakes in there. Because it’s dark and tiny. Because no.”
“So what are you going to do? Because if you pee your pants, you’re not allowed back in Cecilia. Not even to drive home.”
“I’ll just hold it,” I say.
He lets out an exasperated sigh. He looks at me, his eyes drifting down to my feet, where I’m sort of bouncing back and forth.
“I don’t think that’s going to work,” he says. “Why not?”
“Because there’s a tub of soda inside you and you’re already over there doing the cha-cha.”
He’s not wrong. I literally feel like there’s a water balloon sloshing around where my bladder should be, but that doesn’t change my stance on porta potties. I hold firm on my anti–porta potty policy (say that five times fast).
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say, knowing I sound a little bit breathless. I close my eyes tight, like I’ll be able to marshal some power over my bladder if I just concentrate really hard. Then I cross my arms over my chest for some good old-fashioned defiance. “I’m not going in there.”
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This Blog Tour was organized by: