How to fake a southern gentleman / Mayra Cuevas and Marie Marquardt.

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

This bighearted rom-com debut reimagines My Fair Lady , as two women team up to make over a sexy hustler and take down one of Atlanta's most corrupt men. Along the way, their story sizzles with unexpected friendship and swoony love.

Proud single mom Holly Simmons and ambitious journalist Luisa Martín Moreno have nothing in common--until Atlanta's most powerful man, Griggs Caldecott Johnson III, turns both their lives upside down. Griggs is threatening Holly's job as the events manager at the hoity-toity Dogwood Hills Country Club, while Luisa gets fired for trying to expose his scheme to defraud an immigrant family and snatch up their land for a luxury development.

Determined to fight back, the women team up to infiltrate Griggs's inner circle. Their secret weapon? Elijah Denvil Sweet, a sexy hustler with a knack for reinvention. With a makeover, etiquette lessons, and a little help from Professor Pridmore--a charming, handsome, and single linguistics professor--Eli transforms into "Tripp," the kind of Southern gentleman Griggs might just trust.

But as the plan takes shape, so do tender and unexpected feelings neither woman saw coming--with the very men helping them get justice.

With sparkling wit, strong female friendship, and slow-burn romance, How to Fake a Southern Gentleman is perfect for anyone who's ever felt underestimated--and longs for a love that plays by its own rules.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

Chapter 1: LuisaCHAPTER 1 Luisa Unfortunately, newspaper deadlines don't come with a twenty-four-hour birthday curse extension. I should've known my birthday would be the worst possible day of the year to turn in a story I've been working myself to the bone to write for months. Abuela called me at the crack of dawn this morning, bursting into a sweet but abysmally off-key rendition of "Las Mañanitas," after which she delivered the "auspicious news" that she'd had a vision of San Juan Bautista, which meant all my shitty birthday luck was about to be over. " This is the year you will finally shake off the mal de ojo," she exclaimed in Spanish. "Your birthday falls on the spring equinox, mija! It's a sign." Now it's midmorning and my thighs burn as I double my stride, praying Abuelita's right and this birthday will be different, calamity-free. I'm trying in vain to keep up with Nina, my managing editor. She's a five-foot-one force of nature with two speeds: sprinting and catch-me-if-you-can. Which is how I find myself panting as we climb three flights of stairs from the bowels of The Georgia Times , where the printing press is located, to the newsroom on the second floor. Apparently, Nina doesn't believe in elevators. "Nina," I plead for the hundredth time, "this is ready for publication." In my hand, I'm brandishing a draft of my latest article as if it were a sword. The two of us have been going at it over this story for weeks: me pushing forward, Nina pushing back--and for no good reason. "I spoke with experts. I have multiple sources. What's this email about standing down? This is a solid story. Did Chip even read it?" Chip is our publisher. Harold "Chip" F. Marshall IV, to be precise. He's the kind of guy who loves to cry out "Show me the money!" at staff meetings, repeatedly rubbing his thumb and forefinger like some hapless, middle-aged Tom Cruise wannabe. "Oh, Chip read it all right," she says, speed walking ahead of me, parting the newsroom in her electric-blue sheath dress, stylish short Afro, and diamond studs. This woman has mastered the busy boss lady look--laptop in the crook of her arm, eyes on her phone, thumb scrolling down the screen. No one dares interrupt her, except me. "This family is about to lose their home, their farm--their livelihood!--over a deed that magically materialized in the clerk's office." My hands gesticulate wildly in front of me, trying and failing to catch up with my words. I know I'm getting worked up, but I don't care. I refuse to "tone it down" so other people can feel more comfortable with my loud (and proud) Puerto Ricanness. If there's one thing I've learned in the three years I've worked at The Georgia Times , it's that my Latinidad gives me access to the kind of stories most of my colleagues can't get on their own. Stories like this one. Two months ago, I was working late when the crew boss for the night-cleaning service tapped me on the shoulder, scaring the bejesus out of me. In Spanish, she introduced me to her cousin, Gloria Castillo, the owner of a family-run, sustainable farm in Westlake, about forty miles east of Atlanta. Gloria explained that she and her husband were set to inherit their farm from her father-in-law, Don Luis, after he passed away from an aggressive form of cancer. But days after the funeral, the Castillos received notice of an unknown security deed placed on the property. According to the deed documents, Don Luis had taken a six-figure loan against the property from a lender called Peachtree Holdings, LLC. Yet there was no paper trail confirming Don Luis had signed away his farm or that he'd received a transfer of funds to any of his bank accounts. And even though the deed was recorded with the clerk's office, Peachtree Holdings turned out to be a ghost company with no working phone number or email. The address on file belongs to an empty lot owned by the city of Westlake. The Castillos called the police, but without solid evidence of fraud, there was nothing they could do. If they wanted their property back, they'd have to repay the loan. Money they don't have. "What exactly is not clear about my email? Or the three others I sent previously?" Nina says, still speed walking and focused on her phone. "We're shutting the story down. Time to move on, Luisa." I follow her into her office, pulling documents out of my research binder: photos of the Castillos, development plans, interviews with local officials, a copy of the security deed. I'm ready for a fight. As one of the paper's dying breed of investigative journalists, I must be equal parts detective, historian, forensic pathologist, psychologist, and entertainer, if I'm to have any chance in hell at (a) uncovering the truth, and (b) presenting the truth in a way that will make reel-obsessed audiences actually give a fuck. "Look," I say, pointing to the photograph I've just placed on her desk. "This is the family: Gloria and Pablo, Little Mishel and Abelardo. They will be homeless soon." I leave unsaid that Pablo's kind eyes remind me of my late father--killed by a drunk driver during my freshman year in high school. I don't tell her that the kids burrowed their way into my heart, just like each of my three nieces did the second they were born. And I absolutely don't mention that after spending countless hours sharing meals over their kitchen table, there is nothing I won't do to keep them from losing their home. Nothing . Losing your childhood home breaks you in ways you never knew possible. Sure, you can move. Even start over. But you'll never be the same. A part of you tears off and stays behind. And yeah, maybe I'm breaching some objectivity rules, but my counterargument is this: anyone who works to screw over a family of dedicated, kind-hearted immigrants to build yet another golf course for rich white folks is objectively an asshole who must be taken down. In the days and weeks that followed my first meeting with Gloria, I looked into her family's story. "Rage" is an appropriate word to describe how I felt when I came across plans for a future multimillion-dollar housing and golf course development called The Preserve at Lake Chiaha. That's when everything clicked into place. I roll open the plans for the Preserve, guiding Nina's attention with my finger. "The developer already scooped up all the land around the lake--future golf courses and clubhouses." I trace the familiar plans until I reach the community's main entrance. "The only way in and out is over the Castillos' property." I go silent for a beat, expecting her to share in my moral outrage, but her expression remains impassive. "Nina, a bunch of rich white developers are ripping off a hard-working family--in a less-than-legal way--just to get even richer." I throw both hands in the air in disgust. "The city council approved the development outright. No bidding war. No competition. Apparently, this GCJ Construction promised they would include low-income housing, which is total bullshit. Since when do ' world-class ' private communities have housing for the poor?" Nina settles into her Italian leather office chair and releases a sigh. I stand uncomfortably in front of her. There are no other chairs in Nina's office, which I've been told is by design. "Maybe they're building living quarters for the help," she deadpans. "They're set to break ground in the fall, just as the security deed expires." My stomach sinks at the reminder of that deadline. "The developer is some guy called Griggs Johnson, out of Atlanta." "Some guy?" Nina scoffs, finally making eye contact. "Please tell me you know who Griggs Caldecott Johnson III is." "I've already done a deep dive into his company and assets, if that's what you're asking. This man's dealings raise more red flags than a circus tent. He's using an offshore bank in Panama for his business, which only makes sense if you're trying to hide something." I drop an organizational chart on the desk. "One of the main investors in the Lake Chiaha development, Jim Wade, sits on the state's Board of Natural Resources. And lo and behold, he also happens to hold the foundation's purse strings." I jab a finger over the man's simpering face. "There's zero oversight, Nina." She doesn't react, so I press on, offering a series of spreadsheets and tax filings, everything I could find in public records. "I'm convinced this family foundation is a front. Money's probably getting diverted straight to the development." I leaf to the end of the company brochure, where I find a marked page containing photos of various happy families Griggs's foundation has allegedly helped with affordable housing. "But that's just a theory. I'll need more time to dig on that end." "Oh, honey, that, right there, is your problem." Nina points one red, manicured fingernail in my direction. "That guy called Griggs," she says, tersely, "is a big fucking deal in this town." "And he's the person who stands to win big if the Castillos lose their land," I counter. "Given the only road access to the development is through their parcel." Nina shakes her head. "Chip thinks your story is one big hunk of Swiss cheese." "Swiss cheese?" I ask, stumped and suddenly angry at the utter lack of chairs in this office. "The man is a sap for worn-out metaphors." Nina waves a hand dismissively. "Look, you have no evidence of wrongdoing. For all we know, the old man signed this deed and forgot to tell his family. There's nothing illegal here. Sad? Yes. Unfair? Yes. Criminal? You've got nothing." "So that's it?" I ask, unable to accept what I'm hearing. "I can't just call these people and tell them..." I trail off, suddenly overcome by the image of Little Mishel and Abelardo playing in the yard, laughing carelessly into the afternoon sun. I clear my throat, blinking away the surprising sting of tears. And, as a general rule, I don't cry in front of people. This news business, after all, is not for wimps. "Tell them what? That we don't care about their lives? I can't do that." I think back to the first time Gloria and I met in the dead of night in the newsroom, when I asked her what she wanted me to do with the information she'd given me. Investigate , she said. Isn't that what journalists do? Be a voice for people like us . "Nina, just tell me what I need to do to make someone like Chip care about this family. Hell, you know I love a challenge." Nina exhales audibly. "I can't keep protecting you, Luisa. I've been trying to get you to drop this story for weeks now and you've paid no heed. I'm sorry, but--" She pauses, her lips tightening into a thin line as she fixes her dark brown eyes on a point in the newsroom, past the glass walls of her office. "Chip wants you out. He says your work is not up to the newspaper's standards. The newsroom's attorney agreed." I follow her gaze, and that's when I see him --Chip --leaning all too casually against the newsroom's assignment desk. Watching us. Watching me . A clammy sense of dread claws its way up my back. "And is this what you think, too? That my work isn't up to snuff?" Nina doesn't say a word. "Well, tell Chip to explain all the awards hanging above my desk, then. Or the insane number of stories I've broken for this paper!" I lean forward on her desk, my sweaty palms resting on the glass surface. Silence. "Nina?" I plead. "What's going on?" "Luisa, you're fired." Excerpted from How to Fake a Southern Gentleman: A Novel by Mayra Cuevas, Marie Marquardt All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

Luisa, an investigative journalist, is running out of time. Her latest assignment, to expose the criminal corruption of a wealthy and powerful man named Griggs, has hit a dead end, and Griggs is planning to evict a family. Can Luisa pull together her story and prevent the eviction? When she meets Holly, a single mom who works in the exclusive country club Griggs frequents, and finds out he's been sexually harassing Holly, they join forces to bring him down. Their plan: enlist a local small-time hustler, Eli, to infiltrate Griggs's elite world and get the needed information. With help from a linguistics professor, they turn Eli into "Tripp," an old-money Southern gentleman who is looking to invest his trust fund. As their risky scheme unfolds, sparks fly within this ragtag crew, with unlikely romance blooming between Luisa and Eli and between Holly and the professor, only deepening the stakes of their mission. Cuevas and Marquardt (Does My Body Offend You?) deliver a feel-good double happily-ever-after as well as a fierce friendship between Luisa and Holly that readers will fall for. VERDICT This gender-flipped My Fair Lady retelling is a rollicking rom-com featuring a thrilling heist storyline and a keen exploration of class, race, and gender.--Migdalia Jimenez

Publishers Weekly Review

Author duo Cuevas and Marquardt (Does My Body Offend You?) put a delightful, gender-bent spin on My Fair Lady. Journalist Luisa Martín Moreno is fired for writing a damning story about Griggs Caldecott Johnson III, "Atlanta's Golden Boy." Meanwhile, single mom Holly Simmons, an events coordinator at the country club Griggs frequents, is in danger of losing her job and the life she's built for her son due to Griggs's harassment. Fueled by their mutual hatred, Luisa and Holly hatch a plan to expose Griggs with the help of handsome hustler Elijah "Eli" Denvil Sweet. The women give Eli a makeover, complete with etiquette and voice lessons, transforming him into a charming Southern gentleman capable of infiltrating Griggs's elite world and gaining his trust. As Luisa and Holly's wild scheme unfolds, love blossoms between Luisa and Eli while Holly falls for speech professor Hugh. The romance subplots are sweet, but Holly and Luisa's ride-or-die friendship is the true heart of the book. The story toggles between both women's perspectives which, combined with a few too many competing plotlines, makes things feel cluttered. Still, the quirky cast is realistic, well-shaded, and endearing. This sassy celebration of found family and friendship will especially charm fans of the original. (Apr.)

Booklist Review

When Luisa is fired from her reporter job after pursuing a fraudulent land grab from businessman Griggs Caldecott Johnson III, she knows there is more to the story. Holly helps run events at the country club where Johnson goes, but she has to spend her time avoiding him, as he is blackmailing her. When the two women meet at a bar, they decide to do something about the situation. They convince a pool hustler, Eli, to undergo a makeover and infiltrate the fraudulent investment group as the kind of man that Johnson might be inclined to trust. They encounter a linguistics expert who modulates Eli's Southern accent, and who finds his way into the heart of single-mom Holly; meanwhile, Luisa and Eli begin to catch feelings for each other as she sees who he is behind the excellent acting job he pulls off . . . until he gets caught. This modern twist on My Fair Lady, featuring two romance stories, reaches a satisfying conclusion for all involved.