Blog Tour: 'The Piano Man Project' by Kat French

Today I am really excited to be part of the blog tour for Kat French's new novel 'The Piano Man Project', a read which I have been looking forward to picking up for quite some time now! Below I have an exclusive extract from the book to share with all of you, so be sure to check it out!

‘Is the fucking house on fire?’

Whoa. Where did he come from?

‘No, sorry. I burnt my bacon. Just give me a minute . . .’

Honey tried to hide her surprise at finding a dishevelled Johnny Depp type yelling at her in her own hallway. Well, strictly speaking it was a shared hallway, but as the flat opposite had been vacant for months she’d become kind of territorial.She squinted at him. Dark glasses at lunchtime hinted at a fellow hangover sufferer. Maybe he was some famous rock star hiding out. She could dream. Whoever he was, the faded black t-shirt clung to his body in a way that suggested fit, and the tattoos inked down his arms suggested sexy. It was a shame then that his personality rendered him thoroughly repellent.

‘Just shut that fucking racket up, will you? I’m trying to sleep.’

‘Umm . . .’ Honey stared at the alarm in panic. Her head was thumping, and out here the noise was even louder than in her kitchen. ‘I would, but I can’t reach it. Could you possibly . . .?’

He was well over six foot; with a stretch he’d make it, no problem.

‘No I fucking cannot. What sort of grown woman can’t cook bacon? Sort your own mess out.’ He curled his lip and slammed his door.

Honey reeled. Her life was full of people who, on the whole, were decent human beings. To come up against someone so outright obnoxious came as a shock.

‘Fine!’ she shouted. ‘Fine. I’ll do it myself.’ She made a half-hearted attempt at jumping to smack the alarm box. Futile. At five foot five and not very athletic, it had always been a long shot.

Plan B was required. Honey took her slipper off and hurled it upwards, but still she missed the alarm by a good foot. Then she spotted her tall, red polka dot umbrella propped in the corner of the hallway. Bingo! Could she reach the reset button with the metal end spike? She tried, but the damn thing wobbled too much for accuracy and the close proximity to the noise threatened to burst her eardrums.

Gah. The next time she wanted bacon she’d go to the café on the corner.

Honey sighed and opted for the only source of action left. She swung the umbrella above her head and whacked the alarm clean off the wall. It bounced hard against her new neighbour’s door, then landed with a squawk, before dying. She closed her eyes in relief.

Johnny Depp wrenched his door open again.

‘What?’ he growled.

‘What what?’

‘You knocked my door.’

‘Oh.’ Honey bent to pick up the mangled alarm. He recoiled as she straightened, as if her nearness offended him.

‘I didn’t knock. The alarm hit your door on the way down.’

‘You smashed it.’

No shit, Sherlock.

‘I suggest you don’t attempt to cook again. You might burn the fucking house down.’

The stony look on his face told her that he wasn’t amused. As did the door slammed in her face. Again.

Prick.

‘I can cook perfectly well, thank you,’ she yelled, annoyed by his assumption. This was her home. He was on her turf. If he thought he could roll up and chuck his weight around, he could think again.