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A Taste of Tangled In Time

Project Enterprise 3

cover art

Today, I’m featuring an excerpt from, Tangled in Time, the book that one reviewer opined: “…it is like the author had a bucket of margaritas, typed for 3 hours, considered this publishable then spewed it online.”

I can’t even blame it on alcohol, so my hardest beverage is Diet Dr. Pepper, but this seems like a great time to find out what my writing would be like on alcohol? I mean, one reviewer can’t be wrong, right? 

First, a little about the book:

He’s a modern soldier. She’s a vintage scientist. Their star-crossed love could redefine the boundaries of time and space. 

Colonel Braedon Carey thought his space-time test flight would be a cake walk. When he wakes up dazed and confused in an unfamiliar desert, he realizes he crash-landed in the wrong decade. And judging by the steam-powered machine he stumbles upon, Braedon discovers that a spunky scientist already broke his space-time record… by more than a century.

Miss Olivia Carstairs had triple-checked the calculations for her transmogrification machine before she pulled the trigger. But she never counted on being thrown off course by a strange man from the future. Lost in time together, Olivia teams up with the intriguing traveler who speaks in perplexing turns of phrase but whose warm eyes speak volumes. 

On the run from a mad doctor with a dark, twisted purpose, Olivia and Braedon must find their way to a new future before both of their histories disappear.

Tangled in Time is a charming standalone novella in the Project Enterprise sci-fi romance series with a steampunk style. If you like sweet chance encounters, witty rapport, and action-packed adventure, then you’ll love Pauline Baird Jones’ light-hearted story of clocks and chemistry. 

Buy Tangled in Time to get lost in an enchanting temporal romance today!

Perhaps you should have your own special brew close at hand before dipping into this excerpt:

For most females of her acquaintance, a parasol was the final touch in a proper ensemble, but Miss Olivia Carstairs never felt completely dressed without her derringer. According to her brother, she had a steady hand and excellent aim, though she hoped not to need either on the likely gentleman she was pointing it at. He was the only person she’d seen since the experiment went awry—something Mama had warned might happen when Olivia took the position as Professor Twitchet’s assistant, instead of accepting Mr. Lester Heplinger’s proposal of marriage. 

The need to keep him covered required her to study him in a way she normally considered rude, though she was uncertain about the etiquette involved in holding someone at gunpoint. If she read the dropped jaw correctly, he was surprised, though it wasn’t clear if he was shocked by a lady with a gun or a lady being rude. 

His attire was as puzzling as his reaction to her. His uniformly dark attire appeared to be neither in nor recently out of vogue. His shirt clung to a chest that was very fine, and the sleeves were short enough to leave improperly bare, from hand to above the elbow, his brown muscled arms. He wore no cravat and his vest was bulky in places, unfastened and ill-fitting, but not in a dreadful way. His trousers hung low on narrow hips and he wore a pack on his back. He was armed with a pistol in a holster like a Western gunslinger from a penny novel, had a knife strapped to his upper leg and an odd looking rifle hung from a strap under one arm. 

A parasol and a derringer were hardly a match, but instead of being frightened, Olivia felt a need to loosen her tie, which had tightened around her neck as if she’d tugged it, though she knew she hadn’t. She could have also used her fan.

He had fine eyes in a shade of blue that was a particular favorite. His deeply tanned skin, and the fact that he was in need of a shave, should not have enhanced the impact of his eyes. Perhaps it was the combination of height and vigor or the generally pleasing arrangement of features and form that earned her instinctive approbation. 

She very much hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to shoot him.

“Mary…Poppins?” He broke the silence, his husky voice a pleasing addition to his whole.

Etiquette allowed a lady to converse with a gentleman she had not been introduced to if she were in difficulties, which she most certainly was. 

“I am,” she said, in a tone that was cool, because even in difficulties one should maintain a proper distance, “Miss Olivia Carstairs from Gotham City, personal assistant to Professor Emelius Twitchet.” Her association with the Professor would, she hoped, give her stature and credibility, which her odd circumstances might not. She could have added, “the Professor is at present absquatulated or possibly transmogrified” but etiquette cautioned against overwhelming a new acquaintance with a surfeit of information.

* * * 

So that’s it? What is your conclusion? Was I drunk on Diet Dr. Pepper or just high on the idea of writing a steampunk something or other? You be the judge!

Perilously yours,


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