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Accidental Beauty Queen for yourself!
The Accidental Beauty Queen
by Teri Wilson
On Sale: December 4, 2018
Gallery Books | Trade Paperback
Original
ISBN: 9781501197604 | $16.00
E-ISBN: 9781501197611 | $7.99
Audio-ISBN: 9781508283553 |
$17.99
In this charming
romantic comedy perfect for fans of Meg Cabot and Sophie Kinsella, critically
acclaimed author Teri Wilson shows us that sometimes being pushed out of your
comfort zone leads you to the ultimate prize.
Charlotte Gorman loves her job as an elementary school librarian,
and is content to experience life through the pages of her books. Which
couldn’t be more opposite from her identical twin sister. Ginny, an
Instagram-famous beauty pageant contestant, has been chasing a crown since she
was old enough to enunciate the words world peace, and she’s not giving up until she gets the
title of Miss American Treasure. And Ginny’s refusing to do it alone this
time.
She drags Charlotte to the pageant as a good luck charm, but the winning plan quickly
goes awry when Ginny has a terrible, face-altering allergic reaction the night
before the pageant, and Charlotte suddenly finds herself in a switcheroo the
twins haven’t successfully pulled off in
decades.
Woefully unprepared for the glittery world of hair extensions, false eyelashes,
and push-up bras, Charlotte is mortified at every unstable step in her sky-high
stilettos. But as she discovers there’s more to her fellow contestants than
just wanting a sparkly crown, Charlotte realizes she has a whole new motivation
for winning.
About the Author:
Teri Wilson is the author/creator of the Hallmark Channel Original
Movies Unleashing Mr. Darcy, Marrying Mr. Darcy, and The Art of Us, as well as
a fourth Hallmark movie currently in development. Teri is a double finalist in
the prestigious 2018 RWA RITA awards for her novels The Princess Problem and
Royally Wed. Teri also writes an offbeat fashion column for the royal blog What
Would Kate Do and is a frequent guest contributor for its sister site, Meghan’s
Mirror. She’s been a contributor for both HelloGiggles and Teen Vogue, covering
books, pop culture, beauty, and everything royal. In 2017, she served as a
national judge for the Miss United States pageant in Orlando, Florida, and has
since judged in the Miss America system. She has a major weakness for cute
animals, pretty dresses, Audrey Hepburn films, and good books.
Visit her at TeriWilson.net or on Twitter @TeriWilsonAuthr.
Excerpt:
My sister has always
been the pretty one. The Jane Bennet to my Elizabeth, the Meg March to my Jo.
It’s been this way
for so long that I’ve never questioned it. It’s never even bothered me much. It
just is.
Ginny is my sister,
and I love her, no matter how different our lives are. And trust me, they’re
about as opposite as you can imagine. But the chasm between our worlds has
never been quite so glaringly obvious as it is now, because instead of
restocking books on their respective shelves, I’m standing in an elevator at
the posh Huntington Spa Resort in Orlando, Florida, on the first Monday
afternoon of summer.
For starters, at
five feet seven, I’m by far the shortest person of the half dozen or so on
board. This is a rarity for me. As an elementary school librarian, I’m
accustomed to towering over people for the majority of my waking hours. I’m
also used to sitting in tiny chairs and using tiny, blunt-edged scissors, but
that’s beside the point. Five feet seven isn’t short. . . .
Unless you’re riding an elevator packed with beauty queens.
I don’t know what I expected when I signed on to spend a week cheering for my
sister at the Miss American Treasure pageant, but it wasn’t this. The
preliminary competition doesn’t start for another two days, so why are they all
wearing crowns and sashes already? And what is going on with their shoes?
Beauty pageant contestants wear heels. I know this, obviously. I mean, I’ve
seen Miss Congeniality at
least twenty times over the years, thanks to Ginny. But these are beyond high
heels. Gracie Lou Freebush wouldn’t have lasted a minute in them.
No offense to Sandra Bullock. I’m just saying.
I tighten my grip on
the handle of my suitcase, suddenly extremely conscious of the state of my
hair. Orlando is one of the most humid places on earth, and the half hour ride
on the airport shuttle was not kind. For once, I actually feel sorry for Ginny.
It’s one thing to be expected to look perfect onstage, but hotel elevators
should be a safe space. I, for one, plan to be roaming the halls in a spa
bathrobe and complimentary slippers en route to the vending machine for the
majority of my stay.
But to each her own.
Besides, Ginny chose this
life, just as surely as I chose mine. She also gets paid more for one sponsored
Instagram post than I make in a week, and when I remember this, I keep my
sympathy in check.
The elevator comes
to a stop on the fifth floor, which has clearly been reserved for the pageant,
because we all disembark in a glamorous, glittering herd.
Myself being the
exception.
No one seems to
notice my presence, though. The Hogwarts T-shirt I’m wearing might as well be
an invisibility cloak. Fine. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here for the
chance to stay in Ginny’s luxury hotel room for a week, for free, and completely nerd out at the
Wizarding World of Harry Potter.
I’m also here for
moral support, of course. I plan on being at every single pageant event,
cheering like a maniac while inwardly cringing in horror at the very thought of
prancing around in only a tiny swimsuit and a crown. But since the competition
doesn’t start until 5:00 p.m., that leaves my mornings and afternoons free to
hit up the theme park. I’ve emptied my paltry savings account and invested in a
five-day unlimited pass. Bring on the butter beer.
But first, I must
locate our room amid a sea of glitz and sparkle. According to the text Ginny
sent when I landed, we’re in 511. All of my elevator pals are in rooms along
the same stretch of corridor. Half the doors on the floor have hangtags on the
knobs that read, Do not disturb!
This Miss American Treasure contestant needs her beauty sleep!
I roll my eyes
mightily.
Dangling from the
knob of room 511 is one such tag, but I highly doubt Ginny is actually sleeping
because I can hear the television booming through the door. I knock extra hard
so she can hear me above the din of whatever reality show she’s probably
watching.
Just please God
don’t let it be the Kardashians.
An explosion of
barks answers my knock. I take a deep breath. I’ve somehow forgotten all about
my sister’s French bulldog mix, Buttercup. Ginny adopted her a month ago as
part of her “platform.” I’m not sure exactly what that means. She’s a pageant
queen, not a politician. But according to approximately five million posts on
Ginny’s Instagram, she volunteers regularly at her local shelter in support of
her animal rescue policy.
If memory serves,
last year her platform was anti-bullying. But so many other contestants on the
pageant circuit had already thrown themselves into the anti-bullying movement that
she felt pressured to switch to something else. In other words, she got bullied
into giving up her anti-bullying platform. Oh, the irony.
The door to the
hotel room swings open, and Ginny is standing there in a white spa bathrobe
with her hair piled on top of her head in a messy-yet-artful twist. She’s got
one of those serum-soaked sheet masks stuck to her face—the kind that make
regular people look like something straight out of a bad horror movie.
Except Ginny isn’t a regular person. So instead she looks like Gwyneth Paltrow
enjoying a quiet day of self-care.
“Charlotte, you’re
here!”
“Yep. My flight was
right on time.” Thank God. I’m ready to make the most out of day one on my
unlimited pass.
“Come on in.” She
holds the door open wider.
The room is a
double, with side-by-side queen beds and a balcony overlooking a pool flanked
by umbrella-covered lounge chairs, a tiki bar, and two perfectly symmetrical
rows of palm trees swaying in the balmy Florida breeze. Any spare moments I
have this week that don’t include Harry Potter will be spent right there, with
my feet up and a piña colada in hand. It’s been so long since I’ve taken an
actual vacation that the mental picture I’ve just conjured nearly makes me
weep.
“This is gorgeous.
Ginny, thanks again for inviting me.”
“Are you kidding?
I’m so glad you’re here. Dad and Susan aren’t coming until the finals.” Her
smile falters. Behind the face mask, I can see her full lips tip into a frown.
I know exactly what
she’s thinking. “You’ll make the finals. I know you will. You’re a shoo-in for
the top twenty.”
Ginny always makes
the finals. She’s up onstage every year alongside the winner and the
runners-up. She’s just never managed to crack the top five.
“This year will be
different,” I assure her.
She nods. “It has to
be.”
As much as I hate to
see my sister devoting her life to chasing a silly crown, and even though I
positively loathe the
pageant scene, my heart gives a little tug. Sometimes I forget why she got
started in all of this. But every once in a while, when Ginny’s composure
slips, I remember that this is her way of feeling connected to the mother we
barely knew. The crushing sense of loss that inevitably follows always seems to
catch me off guard. It’s in those moments— moments like this one—that I
understand her dream.
I paste a smile on
my face. “It will. I promise.”
I have no right to
make that kind of promise. After all, I’m not judging this thing.
Truly, why would
anyone want that job?
But it’s so rare to
see my sister like this that I can’t stop myself. She’s always been the poster
child for confidence.
Which just goes to show how much
this particular pageant means to her. More than all the others combined.
“You’re right.” She
nods with renewed vigor. “Of course I’ll make the finals. This is my year.”
“Definitely.” Pep
talk over for now, I head toward the bed on the far side of the room—the one
that’s still neatly made and not covered in anything bedazzled.
Every item on Ginny’s bed shines like a disco ball, including her official Miss
American Treasure tote bag. I’m beginning to understand why she uses one of
those sleepmask things like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I might need to invest in one
myself.
As I cross the room,
Buttercup launches herself at my wheeled suitcase, growling and nipping at it
as it drags behind me. By the time I’m within a foot of my bed, she’s fully
attached herself to it and I’m hauling both luggage and bulldog.
“Is this normal
behavior?” I ask. It can’t be, can it?
Ginny waves a
dismissive hand.
I give Buttercup a
little nudge with the toe of my Adidas sneaker. She backs away, peering up at
me with her bulgy little eyes. They almost seem to point in two different
directions. Like plastic googly eyes.
We stare each other
down for a second, and then she resumes her attack on my luggage.
“Is she always so”—I
pause, struggling for an appropriate adjective—“headstrong?”
Buttercup and I have
never been properly introduced. I only know her via Ginny’s Instagram, where
she’s usually doing something less destructive and far more adorable.
“Buttercup is shy,”
Ginny says by way of explanation.
I look down at the
snarling dog. “Sorry, I’m not getting shy here.”
“You’re stressing her out. She’s
not used to strangers and new experiences. She’s a rescue dog, remember? The
poor thing sat in the shelter for four months before I adopted her.”
Ginny checks the position of her
sheet mask in the large mirror over the bathroom counter. It’s a double vanity,
theoretically big enough for both of us. But Ginny’s massive amount of
toiletries take up the entire space. “Did you know that seven million dogs and
cats enter shelters every year, and half of them end up being euthanized?”
I did not know that, and it’s a
horrible, horrible statistic. But her canned delivery prevents me from
absorbing the news with the proper level of emotion.
She’s slipped into
pageant mode. She’s rattling off more devastating facts and figures about
homeless pets, all the while posing with her hand pressed to her heart and her
head tilted just so.
I glance at
Buttercup. Something tells me she’s heard the speech before.
“Maybe less
euthanasia talk in front of the rescue dog?” I suggest. No wonder the poor
thing is stressed.
“Oh my God.” Ginny
blinks. “Do you think she understands?”
“I have no idea, but
why take the chance?” Besides, I can’t handle Ginny’s platform-level intensity
right now. I’ve been up since 4:00 a.m.
“I suppose you’re right.” Ginny
scoops Buttercup into her arms.
I take advantage of
the cease-fire, lift my suitcase onto the bed, and remove my things, paltry in
comparison to the vast wardrobe Ginny has stuffed into the closet and all but
one of the dresser drawers. Fortunately, I travel light.
Clotheswise, anyway.
Beneath the layers of jeans and T-shirts, four hardback novels line the bottom
of my bag. I remove all four and arrange them in a nice, neat stack atop the
nightstand closest to my bed.
When I look up, Ginny’s
shaking her head. “Are you sure you brought enough reading material?”
“Don’t judge. I’m on
vacation, remember?”
“Exactly. You’re
a librarian. Your vacation
should be book-free.”
Ginny makes a zero sign with one of her perfectly
manicured hands.
“How are we even
related?” It’s not the first time I’ve asked that question, and I know with
every fiber of my being that Ginny wonders the same thing sometimes.
How could she not?
“Before you dive
into one of those, can you take Buttercup for a quick walk?” She grabs a
Barbie-pink leash from her nightstand. And—surprise!—it’s heavily bedazzled. “Pretty please.”
“What? Why me?” My
gaze flits toward Buttercup, who’s now positioned on Ginny’s pillow with her
plump rear facing me. “She doesn’t even like me. Stranger danger and all that.”
Ginny rolls her
eyes. “Stranger danger? You spend too much time with little kids.”
True. She dragged me
to yoga once, and I kept referring to easy pose as crisscross applesauce.
Still, Buttercup
doesn’t seem any more thrilled by the idea than I am. Also, I’ve already begun
typing the address of the theme park into the Uber app on my phone. I’m
supposed to be dodging a fire-breathing dragon in Diagon Alley right now, not
walking a petulant French bulldog.
“I was kind of
hoping to head over to Harry Potter World so I could be back in time for us to
have an early dinner. Don’t you have pageant stuff today?” I’m pretty sure she
has a date with some spray tanner this afternoon. Her skin tone matches mine
right now, and I know from experience that Ginny is usually at least four
shades closer to orange when there’s a pageant on the horizon.
“Yes, and of course
you can head right over there just as soon as you walk Buttercup. She hasn’t
been out since early this morning. I can’t do it—I’m not allowed to leave the
room without my sash on.”
I blink. “What?”
“Contestants can’t
leave their hotel rooms unless they’re pageant-ready. Outside of this room, I
have to wear my sash at all times.”
I don’t even know what to say, but suddenly the army of beauty queens from the
elevator makes more sense. “That’s crazypants. It’s like you’re some kind of
pageant hostage. Put your sash on, and take her out yourself.”
Ginny sighs.
“Dramatic much? This isn’t some tiny regional pageant. Miss American Treasure is the
big time. She’s a role model. You know that.”
I do. I probably
know more about that than any of those chattering elevator girls.
“I can’t go out
there like this,” she says.
“Fine.” I take the
leash from her hands. She’s clearly in no condition to leave the room, although
I would pay money to see an Instagram post of Ginny wearing the sash and her
sheet mask at the same time.
“Thank you.” Her
slender shoulders sag with relief. “I owe you one. We’ll have a great dinner
tonight, I promise. It’ll be just like old times.”
Old times?
I don’t believe her
for a minute. When we were kids, our favorite dinners included sloppy joes and
macaroni and cheese. I can’t remember the last time I saw a carb cross Ginny’s
lips.
“Come on,
Buttercup,” I mutter.
The portly little
dog growls the entire time I’m attaching her leash to her sparkly pink collar.
This should be lovely.
“We’ll be right
back.” I cast a glance over my shoulder as I lead Buttercup out the door, and
Ginny catches my gaze in the mirror.
She gives me a
little wave. I wave back, and for a moment, I go still. Rooted to the spot.
Ginny’s sheet mask is gone, and her face is bare. Clean. It’s been a while
since I’ve seen her makeup-free. Without the airbrushed foundation, the
contouring and highlighting, the carefully lined lips and the double layers of
false eyelashes, she looks a lot like me.
She looks exactly
like me, actually. Same nose. Same eyes. Same heart-shaped face.
Same DNA.
Because even though
my sister has always been the pretty one, the beauty queen—the Jane Bennet to
my Elizabeth, the Meg March to my Jo—she’s also my twin.
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