Crazy Over You is a standalone romantic comedy and the second book in the Love with Altitude series.

About the Book

My savior isn’t prince charming.
I’m not that lucky.
He’s my worst nightmare.
He’s my one night stand from two years ago.
And he doesn’t remember me.

What happens on vacation doesn't always stay on vacation. Especially in a place like Aspen. I moved to the mountains for my dream vet job. I never expected to run into the man of my dreams. Again.

I never thought I'd see her again.
My Cinderella didn't leave me a shoe to find her.
Not that I'd need random footwear to recognize her.
Her kiss is something I'll never forget.

Work hard. Play hard. I'm paid to be a nice guy on the slopes, but what I do in my off time isn't always about making good choices. That's the fun of living in a ski town. I stay while the women come and go.

Excerpt

Reminding myself of the lowered percentage of oxygen speeds up my breathing again.

My heart thumps faster, creating a wooshing sound of blood in my ears.

Is it suddenly hot?

I feel hot.

Could be the blazing sun. That’s probably it.

What are the first signs of hypothermia?

Leaning back, I do the one thing my earth science teacher, Mrs. Roe, made me swear I’d never, ever do. I stare at the pale sun. I’m living on the edge, literally. What do I have to lose?

I remind myself I’m sitting in a pile of snow and the temperature probably hovers near thirty.

I wonder if I’ll ever see thirty

More crazy people ski by me while I begin writing my obituary.

Dr. Mara Keiley, DVM, 28, recently of Snowmass Village, Colorado, foolishly believed she was confident and skilled enough to tackle a double-black diamond run after years of being a solid teal skier—a low risk combination of blue and green slopes. She is mourned, and judged for her poor decision making by her parents, Raymond and Sheryl Keiley, who always wanted a doctor in the family, a real, human doctor, not a veterinarian, and her younger brother, Todd, who played high school football, and is still the favorite child. She was unmarried, single, and a size twelve at the time of her death, but not a virgin. Dr. Keiley is survived by two cats and a dog of dubious origin.

Nailed it.

Sounds about right if my mother is put in charge of writing it. Perfectly captures her vague, passive aggressive disappointment. If she only she knew, she’d be thrilled my last thoughts are of her.

“Hey,” another man shouts from above me. “Are you okay? You, in the red hat. Hello?”

His deep, resonant voice and confident delivery remind me of a movie trailer narrator.

Twisting to see behind me, I lean too far to the left, shifting my body weight, and slide downhill sideways. In an attempt to right myself, I lift my left ski pole and stab it into the snow.

Brilliant.

Now I’m lying with my head downhill and my legs spread eagle, skis akimbo. A pole rests a few feet away. Sitting up to reclaim it requires stronger ab muscles than I possess. I should’ve listened about strengthening my core.

I can’t even think “core” without cringing. I blame my grandmother’s romance novels I snuck as a kid. Her core trembled as Sir Reginald stroked her slick folds. Shudder. A girl can learn many things about the ways of love and throbbing manhoods by sneaky reading romances.

With the sun in my eyes, I can’t clearly make out the face of the speaker, but I recognize his red and black uniform. White crosses decorate the chest and sleeve.

He’s ski patrol.

Thank you, God.

“Are you injured?” he calls down to me.

“Only my pride,” I mumble into my jacket.

“Anything broken?” He continues as if I haven’t spoken.

“No, I’m fine,” I raise my voice so he can hear me.

“You don’t look fine. Think you can right yourself and uphill? Climb back to me?” I can’t see his eyes behind his reflective goggles, but I can hear the smile in his voice. I can’t tell if it’s friendly or condescending.

“I think I’m kind of wedged in here.” I use my remaining ski pole to gesture at my skis jutting out of the snow at right angles.

“I can see that. Can you pop yourself out of your bindings? Use the big long stick in your hand.”

“You use your big stick,” I mumble as I jab at my bindings. If shooting fish in a barrel is easy, spearing them must be the opposite.

I fail.

“Never as easy as it looks.” He executes a small hop and glides down the mountain like a commercial for men’s deodorant. Or beer. Something manly and smooth. Razors.

He’s like a damn razor commercial with his smooth moves.

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About the Author

USA Today Bestselling Author Daisy Prescott writes romantic comedies with heart.

Her Modern Love Stories feature characters in their thirties and forties finding and rediscovering love in unexpected and humorous ways. Her Wingmen books star regular guys who often have beards, drive trucks, and love deeply once they fall. Look for her new Rom Com series, Love with Altitude, in 2017.

Born and raised in San Diego, Daisy currently lives in a real life Stars Hollow in the Boston suburbs with her husband, their rescue dog, and an indeterminate number of imaginary house goats. When not writing about herself in the third person, Daisy can be found traveling, gardening, baking, or lost in a good book.

To learn more about Daisy and her writing, sign up for her mailing list here (copy and paste this link):eepurl.com/xhXb5. Send her an email at: daisyauthor AT gmail DOT com Or chat with her on Twitter (@daisy_prescott) and Facebook: /daisyprescottauthorpage, and follow her on Instagram: /daisyprescott