From the author who brought you A Thousand Boy Kisses comes the new emotional novel, A Wish For Us.
A story of music. A story of healing. A story of love conquering all.
Nineteen-year-old Cromwell Dean is the rising star of electronic dance music. Thousands of people adore him. But no one knows him. No one sees the color of his heart.
Until the girl in the purple dress. She sees through the walls he has built to the empty darkness within.
When Cromwell leaves behind the gray skies of England to study music in the South Carolina heat, the last thing he expects is to see her again. And he certainly doesnât expect that sheâll stay in his head like a song on repeat.
Bonnie Farraday lives for music. She lets every note into her heart, and she doesnât understand how someone as talented as Cromwell can avoid doing the same. Heâs hiding from his past, and she knows it. She tries to stay away from him, but something keeps calling her back.
Bonnie is the burst of color in Cromwellâs darkness. Heâs the beat that makes her heart skip.
But when a shadow falls over Bonnie, itâs up to Cromwell to be her light, in the only way he knows how. He must help her find the lost song in her fragile heart. He must keep her strong with a symphony only he can compose.
A symphony of hope.
A symphony of love.
A symphony of them.
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
A WISH FOR US is a new adult standalone. This one goes on my READ AGAIN E-SHELF!
Cromwell Dean is an EDM DJ (electronic dance music). He arrives in South Carolina from England to study music with a huge chip on his shoulder. There, he meets Bonnie Farraday, the only girl to ever criticise him. They have nothing in common…except music.
Tillie Cole is a master at her craft. This book bought me back to the first time I read her work…the Sweet Home series. Not only is it well written but it’s characters are infused with vibrancy and spirit. Cromwell and Bonnie’s romance pulled so many emotions from me…sorrow and joy, hope and despair, passion and apathy. I loved the DETAIL in this book, it successfully made me feel how Cromwell and Bonnie felt and that’s hard to do. Yes, the storyline may have been a bit predictable and call me a big, fat fluffy marshmallow but I STILL cried through the last half of the book!
This is an enthralling tale of circumstance and consequence. The love between Bonnie and Cromwell wasn’t exactly insta-love but more like falling INTO love. It was about finding your soulmate, that once in a lifetime kind of love. In other words…SWOONY love!
At the request of Ms. Cole, I deliberately left a lot of the plot out if my review and focused more on how the book made me feel. I will say that although the story touches on some tough issues, this is a lighter read than some of her other books. Told from dual POVs with a happy ever after. I voluntarily read and reviewed this book.
I let the rush of nicotine fill my lungs and closed my eyes. As my eyelids shut, I heard quiet music playing somewhere nearby. Classical. Mozart. My drunken mind immediately drifted off to when I was a little kid . . .
âWhat do you hear, Cromwell?â my father asked. I closed my eyes and listened to the piece of music. Colors danced before my eyes. âPiano. Violins. Cellos . . .â I took a deep breath. âI can hear reds and greens and pinks.â I opened my eyes and looked up at my father as he sat on my bed. He was staring down at me. There was a funny expression on his face.
âYou hear colors?â he said. But he didnât sound surprised. My face set on fire. I ducked my head under my duvet. My father pulled it down from my eyes. He stroked my hair. âThatâs good,â he said, his voice kind of deep. âThatâs very good . . .â My eyes snapped open. My hand started to ache. I looked at the bottle in my hand; my fingers were white as they gripped the neck. I sat up, my head spinning from the mass of whiskey in my body. My temples throbbed. I realized it wasnât from the Jack, but from the music coming from further down the beach. I pushed my hair back from my face then looked to my right. Someone was only a few feet away. I squinted into the lightening night, summerâs early rising sun making it possible to make out the features of whoever the hell it was. It was a girl. A girl wrapped in a blanket. Her phone sat beside her, a Mozart piano concerto drifting quietly from the speaker. She must have felt me looking at her, because she turned her head. I frowned, wondering why I knew her face, but thenââYouâre the DJ,â she said. Recognition dawned. It was the girl in the purple dress. She clutched her blanket closer around her as I replayed her accent in my head. American. Bible Belt was my guess, by her thick twang. She sounded like my mum. A smile tugged at her lips as I stayed mute. I wasnât much of a talker. Especially when my gut was full of Jack and I had zero interest in making small talk with some girl I didnât know at four in the morning on a cold beach in Brighton.
âIâd heard of you,â she said. I stared back out over the sea. Ships sailed in the distance, their lights like tiny fireflies, bobbing up and down. I huffed a humorless laugh. Great. Another girl who wanted to screw the DJ. âGood for you,â I muttered and took a drink of my Jack, feeling the addictive burn slide down my throat. I hoped sheâd piss off, or at least stop trying to talk to me. My head couldnât take any more noise.
âNot really,â she shot back. I looked over at her, eyebrows pulled down in confusion. She was looking out over the sea, her chin resting on her folded arms that lay over her bent knees. The blanket had fallen off her shoulders, revealing the purple dress Iâd noticed from the podium. She turned to face me, cheek now on her arms. Heat zipped through me. She was pretty. âIâve heard of you, Cromwell Dean.â She shrugged. âDecided to get a ticket to see you before I left for home tomorrow.â I lit up another cigarette. Her nose wrinkled. She clearly didnât like the smell. Tough luck. She could move. Last time I checked, England was a free country. She went quiet. I caught her looking at me. Her brown eyes were narrowed, like she was scrutinizing me. Reading something in me that I didnât want anyone to see. No one ever looked at me closely. I never gave them the chance. I thrived on the podium at clubs because it kept everyone far away, down on the dancefloor where no one ever saw the real me. The way she was looking at me now made nervous shivers break out over my skin. I didnât need this kind of crap.
âAlready had my dick sucked tonight, love. Not looking for a second round.â She blinked, and even in the rising sun, I could see her cheeks redden. âYour music has no soul,â she blurted. My cigarette paused halfway to my mouth. Something managed to stab through my stomach at her words. I shoved it back down until I felt my usual sensation of numbness. I sucked on my cigarette. âYeah? Well, themâs the breaks.â
âIâd heard you were some messiah or something on that podium. But all your music comprised was synthetic beats and forced repetitive bursts of unoriginal tempo.â I laughed and shook my head. The girl met my eyes head-on. âItâs called electronic dance music. Not a fifty-piece orchestra.â I held out my arms. âYouâve heard of me. Said so yourself. You know what tunes I spin. What were you expecting? Mozart?â I glared at her phone, which was still playing that damn concerto. I sat back, surprised at myself. I hadnât talked that much to anyone in . . . I didnât know how long. I took in a drag, breathing out the smoke that was trapped in my chest. âAnd turn that thing off, will you? Who the hell goes to hear a dance DJ spin, then comes to a beach to listen to classical music?â The girl frowned but turned off the music. I lay back on the cold sand, closing my eyes. I heard the soft waves lapping the shore. My head filled with pale green. I heard the girl moving. I prayed she was leaving. But I felt her drop beside me. My world darkened as the whiskey and the usual lack of sleep started to pull me under. âWhat do you feel when you mix your music?â she asked. How the hell she thought her little interview was a good idea right now was beyond me. Yet, surprisingly, I found myself answering her question. âI donât feel.â I cracked one eye open when she didnât say anything. She was looking down at me. She had the biggest brown eyes Iâd ever seen. Dark hair pulled off her face in a ponytail. Full lips and smooth skin. âThen thatâs the problem.â She smiled, but the smile looked nothing but sad. Pitying. âThe best music must be felt. By the creator. By the listener. Every part of it from creation to ear must be wrapped in nothing but feelings.â Some weird expression crossed over her face, but hell if I knew what it meant. Her words were a blade to my chest. I hadnât expected her harsh comment. And I hadnât expected the blunt trauma that she seemed to deliver right to my heart. Like sheâd taken a butcherâs knife and sliced her way through my soul. My body itched to get up and run. To pluck out her assessment of my music from my memory. But instead I forced a laugh, and spat, âGo back home, little Dorothy. Back to where music means something. Where itâs felt.â âDorothy was from Kansas.â She glanced away. âIâm not.â âThen go back to wherever the hell youâre from,â I snapped. Crossing my arms over my chest, I hunkered down into the sand and shut my eyes, trying to block out the cold wind that was picking up and slapping my skin, and her words that were still stabbing at my heart. I never let anything get to me like this. Not anymore. I just needed some sleep. I didnât want to go back to my mumâs house here in Brighton, and my flat in London was too far away. So hopefully the cops wouldnât find me here and kick me off the beach. With my eyes closed, I said, âThanks for the midnight critique, but as the fastest-rising DJ in Europe, with the best clubs in the world begging for me to spin at their decksâall at nineteenâI think Iâll ignore your extensive notes and just keep on living my sweet as fuck life.â
Tillie Cole hails from a small town in the North-East of England. She grew up on a farm with her English mother, Scottish father and older sister and a multitude of rescue animals. As soon as she could, Tillie left her rural roots for the bright lights of the big city.
After graduating from Newcastle University with a BA Hons in Religious Studies, Tillie followed her Professional Rugby player husband around the world for a decade, becoming a teacher in between and thoroughly enjoyed teaching High School students Social Studies before putting pen to paper, and finishing her first novel.
Tillie has now settled in Austin, Texas, where she is finally able to sit down and write, throwing herself into fantasy worlds and the fabulous minds of her characters.
Tillie is both an independent and traditionally published author, and writes many genres including: Contemporary Romance, Dark Romance, Young Adult and New Adult novels.
When she is not writing, Tillie enjoys nothing more than curling up on her couch watching movies, drinking far too much coffee, while convincing herself that she really doesnât need that extra square of chocolate.
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Great review! I didn’t sign up to review as this author broke me with a Thousand Boy Kisses, absolutely broke me! So I need to pluck up the courage to read this in my own time đ
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It’s really worth the tears Caro!!đđ
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I’m scared, hold me!!!!! đ€Ł
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We’ll be marshmallows together Trisy ;-))))
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Hahaha..ok, it’s a deal Sophie!đ
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Wonderful review . . . I keep picturing you and Sophie as Marshmallows passing a box of tissues back and forth LOL
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Bwahaha…yes, sounds about right!đ
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