Release Week Blitz: Remember Me Forever (Lovely Vicious #3) by Sara Wolf, presented by Entangled Teen

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Hello Readers! Welcome to the Release Week Blitz for
Remember Me Forever (Lovely Vicious #3) by Sara Wolf!
If you haven't checked out this series yet, what are you waiting for? Grab your copy today!
Be sure to enter the giveaway below for an Ultimate College Survival Kit!
Congratulations Sara!


"What a rush! Brilliantly crafted, sharply written, and completely unpredictable--the perfect ending to an all-time favorite series! Sara Wolf is a fresh voice in YA, and her characters never fail to make me laugh and think. If you're in the mood for an edgy, witty, one-of-a-kind romance, this is definitely for you!" --Rachel Harris, NYT bestselling author
 
Isis Blake hasn’t fallen in love in three years, forty-three weeks, and two days. Or so she thinks.
The boy she maybe-sort-of-definitely loved and sort-of-maybe-definitely hated has dropped off the face of the planet in the face of tragedy, leaving a Jack Hunter–shaped hole. Determined to be happy, Isis fills it in with lies and puts on a brave smile for her new life at Ohio State University.
But the smile lasts only until he shows up. The menace from her past—her darkest secret, Nameless—is attending OSU right alongside her. And he’s whispering that he has something Isis wants—something she needs to see to move forward. To move on.
Isis has always been able to pretend everything is okay. But not anymore.
Isis Blake might be good at putting herself back together.
But Jack Hunter is better.
Remember Me Forever (Lovely Vicious #3) by Sara Wolf Publication Date: May 2, 2017 Publisher: Entangled Teen
Excerpts:


1)
Jack Hunter turns to face me.
It feels like years, but it’s only been months. A few months.
He looks so much older—lines around his eyes that didn’t used to be there. His face matured somehow, the sharp angles of pubescence rounded off in a handsome, hawkish way. His eyes are the same frigid, clear blue, brows drawn tight.
“Isis, I—”
I pull my fist back and punch him.


2)
She is fire and rage, all claws extended, her hair swirling around her in the gentle summer night wind and her cinnamon eyes ablaze with light from the hall. She shines in the velvet darkness, a little thinner than I remember, and a little sadder, but burning all the same. Always burning. I warm myself on her fury, embracing the searing hot-sweet feel of her wrath and all the vibrant life behind it.

3)
I have to be stone. The slightest crack and I’ll spill my every secret at her feet—that I crave her like a parched plant craves the rain. That the only time I feel alive—honestly, radiantly alive—is when I see her purple streaks, the outline of her shoulders, her smile.

4)
Wait until I go to London and find Platform Nine and-Three-Quarters and slip through to the other side and unleash my rage. I’ll make Voldemort look like a sock puppet. And I’ll make out with Draco. And I’ll train a bunch of house elves to fan me and bring me grapes—
                I stop when I realize I’m writing mental Harry Potter fan fiction on my way to college. Focus!

5)
IT SEEMS TO ME THAT OLD PEOPLE really like to tell you to enjoy your life while you’re young. Said people are usually forty-nine hundred years old and drive Volvos. Not that there’s anything wrong with Volvos. But there is definitely something wrong with being forty-nine hundred years old. This is primarily because having too much experience makes you boring and flat as week-old soda.
Exhibit A: Jack Adam Hunter.
Exhibit B: Immortal vampires, probably.
Exhibit C: Grandparents.


6)
Mom drives slowly and carefully. I sip ginger ale and watch the highway flash by. Suddenly, a terrifying thought hits me upside the head with its sweaty palm.
What the hell did I do with my teenage years?
I didn’t volunteer or play sports. I didn’t become a radical warrior princess on my sixteenth birthday, complete with a talking cat and magically appearing clothes. Hogwarts didn’t even send me a letter, and I haven’t actually forgiven them for that. Wait until I go to London and find Platform Nine and-Three-Quarters and slip through to the other side and unleash my rage. I’ll make Voldemort look like a sock puppet. And I’ll make out with Draco. And I’ll train a bunch of house elves to fan me and bring me grapes—
I stop when I realize I’m writing mental Harry Potter fan fiction on my way to college. Focus! I need at least seven whole focuses if I’m going to make a fabulous impression. Or any impression at all. I’d rather make a bad impression than no impression.
As Mom pulls onto the exit, I sigh.
I didn’t even kiss a boy. For realises, anyway. Not-drunk.
I did other things. I held hands and hugged. Nameless pretended real hard to be nice using hugs and hand-holding. Once or twice he even hinted he thought I was pretty. But it was an act, just to build me up before he tore me down. And it was all before the big it. Little it. It’s not even worthy of a prefix. It’s just “it.”
I have to leave that behind, too. There’s no room for that. Not if I want to move on with my life. I’ve done my best to bury it, ignore it until it goes away, and it’s sort of worked. I got far enough to sleep in a bed with Jack without freaking out. So I’m getting better, and that’s real good to know. It gives me a little bit of hope where there used to be none.
Jack helped me realize that I’m not unlovable. I’m not hopeless.
I’m not all ugly.
Or maybe I realized it on my own. Either way, fighting with him helped me realize lots of stuff. I grew up all kinds of ways. A sharp pain radiates in my chest, but I brush that dirt off my shoulder and watch Mom’s smile.


OTHER BOOKS IN THE SERIES




Sara Wolf is a twenty-something author who adores baking, screaming at her cats, and screaming at herself while she types hilarious things. When she was a kid, she was too busy eating dirt to write her first terrible book. Twenty years later, she picked up a keyboard and started mashing her fists on it and created the monster known as the Lovely Vicious series. She lives in San Diego with two cats, a crippling-yet-refreshing sense of self-doubt, and not enough fruit tarts ever.

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