Coleman - Summer on the Italian Lakes: #1 bestselling author returns with the feel-good romance of the year

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Bestselling Brianna Middleton has won the hearts of millions of readers with her sweeping and steamy love stories. But the girl behind the typewriter is struggling Not only does she have writers block, but shes a world-famous romance author with zero romance in her own life.

So the opportunity to spend the summer teaching at a writers retreat in an idyllic villa on the shores of Lake Garda owned by superstar author Arran Jamieson could this be just the thing to fire up Bries writing and romantic mojo?

Bries sun-drenched Italian summer could be the beginning of this writers very own happy-ever-after

To Lawrence for one glorious summer in Italy, in a villa set high up in the hills.

Love you forever!

Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

My hand gropes around in the semi-darkness for yet another tissue; the flow of tears is now almost completely obliterating my vision. When all that my fingers succeed in finding is a gaping cardboard hole, it is with great reluctance that I drag my watery gaze away from those adoring eyes in front of me.

Empty? How can the box be empty?

I scowl in disgust, scanning the sofa and taking in the profusion of crumpled whiteness caught in the flickering glow from the TV screen. Im surrounded on one side by what looks like a surreal stack of miniature snowballs and, despite my tears, I begin laughing. With a defeated shrug, I drag the sleeve of my PJ top across each cheek in a quick swiping action. Then I return my gaze to its original position staring, mesmerised, into Jude Laws eyes.

Hes looking directly at me as if its just the two of us here and I take in every little detail of that half-smile hes trying so hard to disguise. Okay, so its aimed at Cameron Diaz and not at me because Im watching The Holiday and its just a film; but on pause Cameron isnt even in the frame. Jude is all mine to savour for as long as I want.

To my horror, suddenly the screen goes black as the TV switches into standby mode and the room is consumed in an eerily bleak darkness. With a thudding heart, I frantically scrabble around, desperately trying to locate the remote control and in the process upending the remains of a bowl of crisps.

Damn it! Now is not the time to be eco-friendly! I cry out angrily, at my so-called intelligent TV system.

My fingers continue to rake across the surface of the sofa, each passing second making me feel increasingly desperate. Home alone. And in the dark Im feeling scared. A creak behind me sets me on edge, my heart beginning to race and increasing the urgency of my search. I discover the half eaten bar of chocolate and push it carefully to one side, then move on to discover the almost empty bag of popcorn. Swallowing hard to disperse a lump that has risen in my throat, Im painfully aware that binge eating isnt the answer to anything. But you know how it is, one handful turns into two then three.

As my eyes finally begin to adjust to the gloom, I see a dark shape poking out from beneath the discarded scatter cushion. I snatch it up, stabbing my index finger on the power button. Two clicks and Jude is back, bathing us both in a comforting glow of light. Warmly wrapped up in his navy blue, wool overcoat and sporting that festive red scarf, the ground around him is dusted with snow. I settle back, feeling happy once more.

I missed you, I whisper, softly. My voice wavers a little. I wish he could talk back. To me. And not to Cameron.

That gorgeously cheeky little glint in his eye threatens to melt my now calm heart, as I surrender to his powerfully romantic gaze. Stuffing a generously sized square of chocolate into my mouth, I rather reluctantly press play and the film continues. The camera pans around to catch the utterly gorgeous Cameron fluttering her eyelashes at Jude, and in that instant she snatches him back. Once more the tears start to fall. Sometimes life can be so cruel.

Why cant I find my own Jude Law?

Sniff.

Swipe.

Sniff.

Its 6 a.m. and I should be online stoking the flames of my social media train and littering the internet with my sexy book covers. After all, who doesnt want to look at a gorgeous, half-naked man with an eight-pack at this time of the morning? Well, the truth is me, for one. Unless its the real thing, of course.

Instead, I hop out of bed and slink downstairs to make a strong cup of coffee and grab a packet of biscuits, before I head back to write. Which is ironic, because I havent written a word now for over a month. Well, not one that still exists on the blank page beneath a rather lonely looking title, as theyve all been consigned to the electronic bin.

I have no idea why I cant seem to break this cycle which feels as if Im going around in a never ending circle. Write, delete; write, delete. And Im even hiding myself away from everyone except the enigmatic Jude Law, of course, but I dont think that counts. Its been weeks since I ventured outside. Apart from brief exchanges with the postman and the online supermarket delivery guy, Im turning into a virtual recluse. I havent looked at my inbox for days now and I cant remember the last time I wore anything other than PJs or a tracksuit.

Im supposed to be working towards a deadline, but the line is well and truly dead, with a zero word count so far. I mean, this inability to settle down and make a real start cant last forever, can it?

With a dozen plus novels under my belt, over half of which are international bestsellers, the expectations of me are high. Im a professional and if I cant fill the screen with meaningful words then its over and the bills wont get paid. I dont have a back-up plan if the day job goes awry and I dont think Im capable of doing anything else. Its the only job Ive ever had and therein lies the problem, I suspect. Do all writers eventually run out of things to say, the spring of inspiration reduced to a dribble? Or in my case, drivel.

Come on, Brie, pull yourself together. Have a shower, brush your teeth and your hair and instead of lying in bed battling with a string of words that arent inspiring you at all, sit down in front of that very expensive desk of yours.

Maybe I need to feel the part again, rather than glancing in the mirror and wondering why it doesnt shatter when I see that Medusa head staring back at me.

Make this the day when things start to pick up, lady. The little voice inside my head is adamant. There is a story in there somewhere, but it isnt the one my agent, or publisher, is expecting. I groan out loud. The price you pay for not being true to yourself is that its rather like wearing a mask. At some point it could slide off and thats precisely why Im in this mess now.

When your birthday just happens to fall on the fourteenth of February you are pretty much marked for life. It was my fourth birthday and the memories are still vivid in my mind. After Id opened a stack of presents, my dad gave my mum a large bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates tied up with a big red bow. Id never even heard of Valentines Day, until a friend broke the news later that day. Well, she was more of an acquaintance really: the playground is a tough place and kids can be crushingly mean.

You arent special at all, Carol Ann had taunted. They arent happy just because youre another year older. No one really cares about that. Everyone has a birthday! And in a split second the party was over.