BOOK FEATURE

I’m excited to feature this heartwarming contemporary romance between a MLB baseball player and a pop star. It’s out today, April 1, 2025, and I’ve got not only the official book “blurb”, but an excerpt of the book from the author Berkley Publishing Group.

About the Book

A PR partnership between a pop superstar and a pro-athlete bad boy turns into so much more in this swoony romance from the acclaimed author of When I Think of You.

Ella Simone’s popstar life is what dreams are made of. Her eight year marriage to renowned music producer, Elliot Majors, has helped garner the hits, awards, and adoring fans to prove it. But when Ella tires of Elliot’s many infidelities, she decides to fight for her independence despite the ironclad prenup that threatens her career. 

To help her case, Ella is under strict orders to stick to The Plan: no headlines, no rumors, no rocking the boat. But this strategy is thrown a curveball after an awards show wardrobe snafu and quick rescue by Miles Westbrook, MLB’s most eligible player, sends the tabloids into a frenzy. Amid tricky divorce proceedings, Ella’s magnetic connection with the charismatic pitcher might just be her downfall.

 Now the pressure is on to turn a scandal into an opportunity and give their teams what they want: a picture-perfect performance that will shore up both Ella and Miles’ reputations. But as the lines between reality and PR begin to blur, Ella will either stick to the choreographed life she knows so well, or surrender to a love that could set her free.

EXCERPT

I shouldn’t have worn the wig. It was bad enough Sheryl wasn’t available to help me install it properly. Now it’s sitting about an eighth of an inch too high on my hairline and digging into the base of my neck. But since it’s my signature look-long, dark chocolate, with a body wave-I’m pretty sure that blue-pinstripe-suit-wearing dude positioned at my four o’clock near the turnstile just spotted me.

And, yep, now he’s got his cell phone camera trained in my direction primed to snap a photo. I cock my head to the side and marvel at the boldness. Most people have the decency to at least pretend they’re on FaceTime or using a selfie cam to check for a seed in their teeth. That he should be ashamed to openly invade my privacy is a notion entirely lost on this man, and I have to say . . . I’m impressed by the audacity.

Grunting, I angle my body slightly to reposition my purse strap on my shoulder while willing the elevator to put some pep in its descent from the thirtieth floor. Thankfully, this corporate lawyer type turned amateur paparazzo is waiting near the elevators for the odd floors, which means soon, I’ll be free of him.

I could kick myself, though. Because more than likely, by tonight his photos will have graced The Shade Room under a headline that reads something like Ella Simone: Spotted! at Divorce Attorney’s Office! and my publicist, Lydia, will suffer a cardiac event. In her defense, my coming here alone was ill-advised. If she’d gotten her way, I’d have sent my manager, Angelo, who would have patched me in over Zoom. But if she’d truly gotten her way, there would be no reason for this visit at all. Because I’d be doing the “wise thing” for my career and staying attached to Elliot Majors.

But these days, I’m impervious to wise counsel. Ironic, given the reasons I’ve shown up here today.

“Excuse me, miss? I’m sorry but I’m such a huge fan.” The words tumble down at me from about half a foot up and behind my left shoulder.

It looks like Blue Pinstripe Suit has gathered up the courage, or decency rather, to approach the subject of his impromptu photo essay. Behind my shades, I roll my eyes. Damn this slow-ass elevator! Suit Man probably just wants to confirm that I’m me before he shoots those grainy snaps off to the highest bidder. I turn and plaster on the trained smile I’ve adopted-it says I’m a nice person who’s got both hot sauce and Mace in her bag.

Reluctantly, I extend my hand to shake his. “Hi, how are you?” I say politely, if a little restrained-a tactic meant to signal that this interaction will be brief.

He encases my hand with his damp palm, aggressively shaking it in return. “Wow. I can’t believe it’s you!” he exclaims, with beads of sweat dotting his brow. “Would you . . . would you mind?”

Assuming he’s about to ask me to sign something, I reach in my purse for a pen. But before I can object, he’s angled himself next to me and raised his phone with the camera flipped to selfie mode. At the last second, I noticed it’s toggled to record. Imaginary sirens blare in my ears.

I open my mouth to protest, but he steamrolls ahead. “Can you sing a little bit of that one song . . . what was it?” he muses. My face pricks with heat from mortification and then . . . he proceeds to perform a boisterous and breathtakingly pitchy rendition of “Bitch Better Have My Money.”

He bobs and weaves, making little swiping motions with his hands and these . . . dance moves? are so aggressively unpredictable I have to take a step back to avoid being headbutted or sideswiped when he shouts the lyric “I call the shots, shots, shots! Like bra, bra, bra!”

I am simultaneously frozen, in shock, and utterly awed by what I am witnessing. Then I deflate. Not out of disappointment that I’ve apparently been mistaken for Rihanna, or that in this post-“listening and learning” and “doing better” America we find ourselves in, some people still fail at individuating Black folks with markedly distinct physical characteristics. But all that previous pent-up fear and anxiety whooshes out of me like a popped balloon. He hasn’t the faintest idea of who I am. That means my secret’s safe. For now, at least.

The performance, which lasted for probably fifteen seconds but felt like an hour, is over now, and he’s gesturing toward me like it’s my turn to do a little ditty for him. The nerve. I may be an entertainer, but I’m not here, at this moment, for his entertainment. And before he can tap the record button with his thumb, I reach up and block his camera lens with my hand.

“This has been fun and all but actually, I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” I say. Then I crane my neck and train a panicked Help! glance at the well-dressed security guard who’s been dutifully manning the turnstile.

Almost instantly, he clocks my distress and glides over to assist. “Excuse me, sir. But there’s no filming allowed in the lobby.”

Ding!

Like an answered prayer, the elevator opens depositing a handful of overly starched individuals with stern expressions on their faces. I step aside to let them exit, just as the security guard, whose name is Jamal according to his badge, gently nudges Rihanna’s biggest fan farther away from me.

And before I step onto the waiting elevator, Jamal leans over and whispers in my ear. “Don’t worry, Miss Simone. Promise I won’t tell.” He winks and I smile just as the doors close.

Excerpted from No Ordinary Love by Myah Ariel Copyright © 2025 by Myah Ariel. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.