Ruby Spencer's Whisky Year by Rochelle Bilow (English) Paperback Book

Description: Ruby Spencer's Whisky Year by Rochelle Bilow A thirty-something American food writer moves to a Scottish village for one year to find inspiration-and love-and fulfill her dream of writing her own cookbook in this charming debut romance.One of...BuzzfeedsRomance Books To Look Out For In 2023Paste MagazinesMost Anticipated Contemporary Romance Books of 2023When a thirty-something American food writer moves to a Scottish village for one year to fulfill her dream of writing a cookbook she finds more than inspiration-she meets a handsome Scotsman she cant resist.Ruby Spencer is spending one year living in a small cottage in a tiny town in the Scottish Highlands for three reasons- to write a bestselling cookbook, to drink a barrelful of whisky, and to figure out what comes next. Its hard to know what to expect after an impulse decision based on a map of Scotland in her Manhattan apartment-but she knows its high time she had an adventure.The moment she sets foot in Thistlecross, the verdant scenery, cozy cottages, and struggling local pub steal her heart. Between designing pop-up suppers and conversing with the colorful locals, Ruby starts to see a future that stretches beyond her year of adventure. It doesnt hurt that Brochan, the ruggedly handsome local handyman, keeps coming around to repair things at her cottage. Though Ruby swore off men, she cant help fantasizing what a roll in the barley might be like with the bearded Scot.As Ruby grows closer to Brochan and the tightly held traditions of the charming village, she discovers secret plans to turn her beloved pub into an American chain restaurant. Faced with an impossible choice, Ruby must decide between love, loyalty, and the Highlands way of life. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Author Biography Rochelle Bilow is a food and romance writer who previously worked as the social media manager at Bon Appetit and Cooking Light magazines. A graduate of The French Culinary Institute, she has also worked as a line cook, a baker, and a wine spokesperson. Her first book, The Call of the Farm, a swoony farming memoir, was published in 2014. Raised in Syracuse, New York, Rochelle now lives in northern Vermont. Review "This book doesnt just have a phenomenal romance at its heart—and a sexy Scotsman to swoon over—but a truly immersive sense of place, one that youll never want to leave once youve allowed yourself to discover Thistlecrosss inherent charms and the hilarious locals who inhabit this cozy village."—Paste Magazine"Ruby Spencers Whisky Year is utterly charming. Rochelle Bilows evocative writing made me feel like I was in a cozy Scottish cottage right alongside her irrepressible heroine, swooning over the local food, whisky, and strapping bearded handyman. I finished the book, my heart full and my stomach rumbling, then immediately googled plane tickets to Scotland."—Laura Hankin, author of A Special Place for Women"Rochelle Bilows debut is a transportive delight! The humor and warmth are like a sip of fine single malt, with all the depth and complexity of flavor to make you plan your own escape to Scotland. If youre in search of a love story to make you feel like youve come home, dont miss your chance to fall in love with this book."—Denise Williams, author of Do You Take This Man"The perfect cozy read for a chilly winter day."—Culturess"Bilow has written a romance that should be savored slowly, if only to thoroughly appreciate her poetic prose and immersive sense of place....A charming, lyrical debut about love and self-discovery."—Kirkus Reviews"Bilows debut is perfect for readers enamored of Scotland and friends-to-lovers romances."—Booklist"Food writer Bilows debut romance is just as charming as its Scottish village setting."—Library Journal Review Quote " Ruby Spencers Whisky Year is utterly charming. Rochelle Bilows evocative writing made me feel like I was in a cozy Scottish cottage right alongside her irrepressible heroine, swooning over the local food, whisky, and strapping bearded handyman. I finished the book, my heart full and my stomach rumbling, then immediately googled plane tickets to Scotland."-- Laura Hankin, author of A Special Place for Women "Rochelle Bilows debut is a transportive delight! The humor and warmth are like a sip of fine single malt, with all the depth and complexity of flavor to make you plan your own escape to Scotland. If youre in search of a love story to make you feel like youve come home, dont miss your chance to fall in love with this book."-- Denise Williams, author of Do You Take This Man "Food writer Bilows debut romance is just as charming as its Scottish village setting."-- Library Journal Excerpt from Book Chapter One Ruby Spencer was absolutely, positively sure about three things. 1. Quitting her job and moving to a random town in the Scottish Highlands for a year to write a cookbook was the craziest thing she had ever done. 1.5. (Would ever do.) 1.75. ((The crazy thing was the Scotland part, not the cookbook part.)) 2. In all her thirty-five years, she had never lived anywhere as beautiful as this tiny stone cottage, overgrown with ivy and moss, with its sweet mint-green door. 2.5. Even if it didnt have a kitchen. 2.75. Hahahahaha. 3. After two delayed flights, a canceled one, an overnight snooze on a bench in Heathrow Airport, and one missing piece of luggage later . . . her armpits absolutely, positively stunk. Ruby set her canvas duffel on the cool floor, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. God, I smell awful. On her next breath, she focused her attention on the cottage around her. She wiggled her toes inside her Keds and shimmied her shoulders on the exhale. The air inside the cottage smelled sweet and heady, like cinnamon and smoke, black tea leaves and vanilla. Which was nice. Which was much better than her armpits, which smelled like curry and garlic. She kept her eyes shut as she listened for the tiny sounds that tend to hide in old stone Scottish cottages. To her right and slightly above: the wind whistling through the chimney and into the hearth. In front of her and through the window: gentle clucking from a flock of hens scratching at the ground. Behind her, the creak of the heavy wooden door shed left open, swinging on its hinges. To her left: nothing. But wait-Ruby pressed her fingers into her palms and bit the inside of her cheek. A frenetic scamper, followed by a squeak. A mouse! Rubys eyes flew open and she laughed. The mouse had gone, but, she surmised, not for long. "Of course," she said, running her palm down her messy fishtail braid. "I would be disappointed if there werent mice." Next, Ruby held her arms out by her sides and felt the air on her skin. It was mid-April, and the Highlands were still chilly, but, as mentioned, she was a bit ripe. She had stripped down from her three-season traveling jacket and sweater to jeans and a cotton camisole, and the breeze was a treat. The air inside the one-room home she had agreed to rent-Sight unseen! After a few short phone calls with the owner! For a whole year!-hung cold from years of vacancy. But it was thick with potential. Ruby could tell that much was true. She sniffed a little and caught heather on the breeze. Classic Scotland, right there. Its just like I imagined, she thought. Ruby wondered what other Scottish stereotypes would prove to be true. She hoped the one about strapping bearded men who guzzled whisky and whispered sweet nothings was. But maybe she had just been watching too much Outlander. Her mind trotted past the image of a sexy Scot kissing her against a pile of oak barrels to Benjamin. She immediately cringed. No. Mustnt think about Benjamin here. The man had occupied far too much of her brain space for far too long. The breeze picked up again and Ruby was pulled into the present. She reached for the sweater shed tied around the duffel straps and slipped it over her head. It was cream colored and cable-knit, long in the sleeves, and reached halfway down her thighs, but it was soft and comfortable, perfect in the way that favorite sweaters always are. She looked around and drank in the scene. There was a massive stone hearth, almost large enough to hold the height of her five-foot, two-inch frame. The fireplace dwarfed the rest of the cottage. Or perhaps anchored it? Hard to say. It was big. Directly across from the door Ruby saw a dusty window held together by thin timber muntins; one of the glass panes was missing and was nailed over with a wood board. This was the sort of thing that would have driven her mad in Manhattan, an injustice that wouldve had her hollering at her landlord for a replacement and reduction in rent. But she was in Scotland! So now it was charming, and she didnt have to be angry about it. In front of the window sat a bed to rival the hearth. It was made from wood, like every other piece of furniture in the cottage, with an enormous head- and footboard, and thick posts for legs. It looked like it weighed a ton. Two tons? Numbers were not Rubys strong point. The mattress was covered in a white sheet and a worn velveteen green quilt that looked about a trillion years old. Again: super charming. Because, Scotland. Spread across the quilt, at the foot of the bed was a real sheeps pelt. Ruby touched it with her fingertips and brought them up to her nose; she could smell the lanolin. There were plenty of pillows, both functional and furry, piled against the headboard, giving the whole bed a look that was at once soft and wild. Ruby kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the mattress. It was surprisingly comfortable, although she wouldve dealt with it no matter what. Having sold all her earthly possessions and moved across an ocean, she didnt have much room to be picky about details like beds and mattresses. On the other side of the cottage, pushed up against the stonework, was a small writing desk and minuscule chair. A tapestry throw was artfully draped over the desk. On top of that, a tapered candle in a brass holder and a delicate vase holding a few yellow cowslips. Ruby reached off the bed and rummaged in her duffel bag for her dictionary, which-okay, yes, she had brought a dictionary in her carry-on luggage. And, yes, she realized ten minutes into her wait at the security check that it had been a monumental (and monumentally heavy) mistake. The thing of it was, Ruby really wanted to make a fresh start here: not just to write a cookbook but to become the sort of person she wished she was. The sort of person she never got around to becoming in New York. The sort of person who, when reading novels and encountering a word she didnt know, looked it up in an actual dictionary, rather than grabbing her phone and googling "meaning of alacrity" or whatever. To be clear, not the sort of person who immediately exited the dictionary.com app and spent the next forty-five minutes blacking out on Instagrams explore tab. Not naming any names, but . . . ugh. Rubys life had become very stale and very uninspiring over the course of the last few years. The dictionary felt like-what? A reminder of that intention? Sure. Lets go with that. Anyway, she placed the dictionary-Oxford, not Merriam-Webster, because, Scotland-on the writing desk. There. Transformation complete. She was now a calm and stable human who could do hard and good things, like move to the UK in her midthirties and learn new words. The cottage couldnt have been more than eight by eight feet; if Ruby wanted to, she could cross the whole thing in one big step (and a half). But how did they measure things in Scotland? Centimeters? Ruby wasnt positive. She had a moment of panic. How could I have moved to a country without knowing their units of measurement? Ruby grabbed her phone to google it. Wait. No Wi-Fi in the cottage. Right. Shed look it up later. It probably didnt matter that much, honestly. What did she need to measure? She was only writing a cookbook. Sigh. She stretched her arms over her head, then brought her hands down underneath her sweater. She scratched her rib cage and yawned, bone-tired from the international flight, the train ride from Glasgow Airport to Inverness, the taxi ride from the station, and the polite touch-base conversation with the cottages proprietor, Grace Wood. "Its perfect," she murmured to herself now, curling up into a small ball in the center of the bed. The door caught a lively gust and slammed shut with a thud. Somewhere along the baseboard, the mouse exclaimed in surprise. Ruby pressed her palms together and tucked her hands underneath her cheek. She imagined the rodent wearing a miniature kilt and drinking from a thimble of whisky. Scotland is going to be great. Everything will work out. This was definitely not a mistake. Nope. Not at all. No mistakes here. Not a single one. Ha ha. And then, even though her brain very much wanted to keep thinking about the cottage, about her future cookbook, about awful Benjamin, about how shed earn enough money to live here for a year, about why the hell shed thought a cottage with no internet would be charming, and about every single embarrassing thing shed ever done in her whole life, exhaustion overtook her body. Her fringe of black lashes fluttered once, and she was asleep. When Ruby woke, it was dark. How long had she been sleeping? The cab had dropped her off at the pub shortly after noon; it couldnt have been much past one when she drifted off. She rose and fumbled around the walls for a light switch. The fixture on the ceiling crackled and sparked a few times before it settled into a dim glow. Two weeks ago, a rustic cottage in the small town of Thistlecross was all she could think about. And she was finally here. She was about to spend an entire year exploring Scotland and drinking whisky. So why did it suddenly seem . . . less awesome? Harder? Ruby needed better ambiance; that would help, for sure. She found a box of matches in the desk drawer, struck one, and lit the candle. Light threw itself against the stone walls and made dancing shadows. "Oh, thats nice," she said, and rifled through her bag for a toothbrush and some clean jeans. Ms. Wood had set a pitcher of water on the windowsill, along with a ceramic mug. Ruby filled the mug and drank it down, then brushed her teeth. There was a small bathroom tucked Details ISBN0593547888 Author Rochelle Bilow Language English Year 2023 ISBN-10 0593547888 ISBN-13 9780593547885 Format Paperback Publication Date 2023-02-14 Publisher Penguin Putnam Inc Imprint Berkley Publishing Corporation,U.S. Country of Publication United States US Release Date 2023-02-14 UK Release Date 2023-02-14 Pages 368 Place of Publication New York DEWEY 813.6 Audience General NZ Release Date 2023-03-20 AU Release Date 2023-03-20 We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:140190697;

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