The first time I saw Carsen Wheatley, I flipped him off.
The second time, I kneed him in the balls.
The third? I kissed him.
Why? Because Carsen needed it.
Angry and full of hate, Carsen is a lost soul, searching. Since the death of his mother, he’s cold and isolated, needing someone to fill the gap she left wide open, someone to kiss the anger from his soul.
That’s where I come in.
I’m restless, on the search for a new adventure, something to make me feel…well, anything. I’m certain I’ll find a permanent fix soon, but in the meantime, I have this summer job and Carsen to keep me going.
But the summer is only temporary, and so is the fix.
We are imperfect.
We are mismatched.
We are the stars.
O-M-G! I wrote this review super quick in the early morning hours the other day, so I am going to add a little bit to it. I was lying down to go to bed the other night and decided to read a few chapters to unwind (which in turn ended up being the entire book none the less) of We Are All Stars written by the extraordinary Teagan Hunter. The second I started reading this book I couldn’t stop and ended up finishing it in a little over an hour (since it was a novella, which means it is shorter then a full length novel). Lets just say I am so hoping — “fingers crossed” — for more Elliot and Carsen in the future, or at least more stories set in their world. I absolutely adored this story and was left both satisfied with the end of the book and wanting more at the same time. Teagan Hunter — what have you done to me? I can’t wait to see what this author releases next!
About Teagan Hunter
I’m a romance cover artist by day and a writer by…well, every free moment I get. I currently live in North Carolina with my US Marine husband where I spend my days bugging him about getting a cat so our puppy won’t be alone (he keeps saying no). I survive off coffee, pizza, and sarcasm. When I’m not writing, you can find me binge-watching various TV shows, especially Supernatural. I like cold weather, I buy more paperbacks than I’ll ever read, and I never match my socks—unless they’re fuzzy.
I’m weird. It’s kind of my “thing.”