The Law Of Attraction By Roxie Cooper | Neverland Blog Tours | Plus Giveaway!

Tuesday, 29 August 2017




Amanda Bentley has always dreamed of being a barrister…

But as a platinum blonde bombshell from the wrong side of town, with a perfect tan and sleek high heels, she doesn’t exactly look the part – or fit in with the brash public school boys and cold posh girls of Newcastle Crown Court’s robing room. Amanda’s never been one to back down from a challenge, and so when she wins a prestigious pupillage following law school, she’s determined to make the most of her chance – and make all her dreams come true.

Only three things stand in her way: Sid Ryder – the sexy, irresistible barrister who she absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, sleep with. At all. Marty Gregg – her smarmy law school nemesis, who she's in direct competition with for the top job. And her big, dark secret that could jeopardise everything she's worked so hard for.

Who said that following the laws of attraction was going to be easy…?

Perfects for fans of Legally Blonde, Lindsey Kelk and Joanna Bolouri


Roxie was born and bred in Middlesbrough.  After studying Classics at University, she became a dancer in a nightclub for a few years, before going travelling and living in Australia.  When she returned, she swapped dancing on a bar, to practising at the Bar, and became a barrister for 7 years.  

It was after being constantly told “Ooh! You don’t look like a barrister!” by absolutely everyone she met, that the idea for her debut novel was born.

Roxie lives in Yarm, a pretty little market town in the North-East.  She’s a bit (lot) obsessed with Prince and spends far too much time watching him on YouTube.  Her hobbies include watching musicals, making her hair as big (and blonde) as possible, and wishing she was Buffy the Vampire Slayer.


Amazon UK:

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Twitter: @toodletinkbaby

After a few minutes, I hear something coming from the corridor which sounds like singing. Oh Christ, it’s probably an early morning conference with a crazy client. Jill doesn’t even flinch; she’s probably used to it. The singing gets louder and I shrink into my chair, hoping the lunatic won’t notice me. As I do, a wild-eyed man leaps into the room, displaying what can only be described as jazz hands, finishing what is his rendition of ‘All That Jazz’ from the musical Chicago.
‘Aaannd aaaalllll thhhhhaaattttt jaaaaaazzzzz… THAT JAZZ! PAHHH!!’ He’s wearing a waistcoat over a garish salmon-pink shirt, with a bright-green tie. He’s an imposing, tall man, looks about fifty-odd, with wild, ‘mad professor-esque’ grey hair, and he is wearing huge, black-rimmed glasses. He doesn’t look like a criminal. In fact, he looks vaguely familiar.
I sit watching, quite horrified, as the man freezes in full jazz hands mode, staring at me.
This is Richard Skylar. My pupilmaster. The man from whom I am expected to learn the fine art of advocacy.
‘Erm…’ I mutter.
What does he expect me to do?
He instantly snaps out of jazz hands mode and stands up straight. ‘Well, come on, Barbie! No time for sitting around, we’re starting a trial in a few hours!’ he barks.
This is utterly bizarre.
I follow Skylar into his attic office and there is no chatting on the way. He sits behind his desk and points to a chair on the other side of it, presumably for me to sit down. Having lugged my suitcase up all the stairs, I am now panting quite a bit, which is quite the disgrace for a twenty-three-year-old woman. The desk is huge and made of dark mahogany wood, covered in bundles of paper, none of which appears to be in any kind of order. Some of the bundles have coffee-cup rings on, highlighted by the bright stream of sun pouring in through the small window.
He folds his arms and looks very stern, seemingly choosing to ignore the musical feast bestowed upon me only minutes before.
‘Right,’ he asserts. ‘My name is Skylar, Richard Skylar. Not Rich, Richard. I’ve given you a day’s grace for today, but from now on you will come into Chambers at 7.30 a.m. and will not leave until I say you can go. I will be giving you weekly advocacy exercises to perform for me.’
I nod intently, hoping Skylar can’t hear my heart racing ten to the dozen or my gulping at the information he has just dispensed.
‘You are my fourth pupil and will be my last, so you’d better be good,’ he goes on.
Oh fuck. The pressure.
‘I’ll try my best, Mr Skylar.’
‘I want you to know that you can always come to me for advice. I am always contactable, day or night. But NEVER call me when Doctor Who is on because I simply will not answer. I am allowed an hour off per week from my pupilmaster duties. Understand?’
‘Yes, Mr Skylar,’ I pant.
‘Richard,’ he states. ‘And the last thing… when it comes to pupillage, know this – there is no such thing as a stupid question. Got it?’
‘Good!’ he booms.

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