Meet Marcelle Steele, author and sceenwriter. Her new book, The Vacation Bubble is a contemporary romance/women’s fiction novel combines humor and passion while exploring midlife challenges, ageism, and the beauty of second chances—all while immersing readers in Barcelona’s rich culture, cuisine, and hidden treasures.
From Amazon:
Readers’ Favorite… “Bridget Jones’ Diary meets Eat, Pray, Love”
A smart, sexy, second-chance romance that will touch your heart
A fling wasn’t on her vacation itinerary. Neither was falling in love.
Romance has ghosted, gaslit, and gone full Shakespearean tragedy on Sofia Drake. She’s basically a one-woman rom-com with no third act. Her spirit animal? An antelope, always ready to sprint if love sneaks up on her again.
Freshly dumped and downsized out of her job, Sofia is ready for a cosmic do-over. A solo escape to Spain seems like the perfect way to hit the reset button on her life… until she runs into Ryan Hunter, the guy she swore she’d never see again—too young, too tempting, too perfectly leading-man material.
He offers her a deal she can’t refuse. What harm could come from a fling in Barcelona? So she breaks her own ‘no men’ rule and comes up with a new rule: keep it vacation-only. Sun, sangria and maybe a little sizzle.
But as the clock winds down on their time together, Sofia has two choices: guard her heart from the free-fall—or leap, and pray love catches her midair.
Sometimes the best adventures happen when you stop running from what scares you most.
For fans of Beach Read, The Unhoneymooners, and Part of Your World, this witty reverse age-gap romance is a sun-drenched escape with heart, heat, and humor.
“The Vacation Bubble will resonate with readers who crave wanderlust, sizzling chemistry, and second chances. It’s a love letter to every woman who’s ever been told she’s too old to start over, too emotional to lead, or too wrinkled to be wanted.” —Readers’ Favorite
“Barcelona is a wonderfully exotic location, and the author’s descriptive writing will have readers alongside Sofia and Ryan as they explore the city.” —Readers’ Favorite
“Marcella Steele’s writing sparkles with biting one-liners, brutally honest observations, and laugh-out-loud self-deprecating humour.” —Readers’ Favorite
“Steele makes Sofia relatable, no matter the age of the reader. Her struggles will resonate with any woman who’s ever been single. The Vacation Bubble is a roller coaster of fun, romance, steam, and sun!” —Readers’ Favorite
“Brilliantly written with skill, every chapter pulls you in—inspiring self-exploration and belief in love at any age.” —Marni MacRae, International Award-Winning Author
About the Author
Marcella Steele is an American author and screenwriter who now writes with her laptop precariously balanced on a café table in Barcelona. Marcella champions the radical idea that women over forty are just getting started, and her contemporary romance/women’s fiction novels celebrate love, passion, and self-discovery at any age. With her passion for travel, she delights in bringing the reader along to discover the magic of faraway places.
“My stories are dedicated to all the amazing women I’ve met on my journey; those in their fabulous forties and fifties, and even sexy sixties or seventies. The power of the female spirit to burn even brighter with each passing decade is a beautiful thing to witness. These courageous women living life to the fullest, have truly been an inspiration.”
Social Media Links:
https://www.instagram.com/marcellasteele.writer/
@writermarcellaste
https://www.facebook.com/Marcellasteelewriter/
Website: www.marcellasteele.com
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- The Vacation Bubble is Book One in the Trilogy, To Barcelona with Love
- Available on Amazon on September 1st
- https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FF2VMQFD
- Audiobook will be released September 15, on Audible, Spotify, Google Play. Narrated by Zoe Black and James Cassidy.
- Sample of audiobook, the prologue and the first chapter:
- Second book in trilogy will be available in November
VacationBubble_Teaser.mp3
Chapter One, Excerpt
“Hold that pace. Ready? Now, butts off seats and sprint!”
The instructor’s voice cut through the pounding music and the whir of twenty spinning bikes. I stared at his impossibly white teeth behind a smile so wide it looked Photoshopped in real life. His relentless enthusiasm made me wonder if he was high on something or running on endorphins, protein powder, and pure delusion. How could anyone be this happy while endlessly spinning yet going nowhere?
My thighs screamed in protest. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen. I had forty-five more minutes of this torture masquerading as exercise, and I was already planning my obituary: Sofia Drake, forty-nine, died in San Francisco doing something incredibly stupid in the name of fitness. She is survived by her dignity, which she left at the front desk.
“That’s it, ladies, you’re doing great. Let’s pick it up, go a little faster.”
I would have laughed if I wasn’t busy trying to keep my lungs from exploding. This twenty-something endorphin junkie was going to be responsible for my heart attack. Did the gym have a defibrillator?
He gripped the handlebars, biceps bulging, beaming that toothpaste-commercial smile at the class as if to say, “Isn’t this the most fun you’ve had all week?” In defiance, I shot him back a look that said, “I seriously hate you.”
Madison caught my eye from the bike next to mine; her face twisted in beautiful agony. She had suggested we attend the yoga stretch class down the hall with all the other mature women who’d made peace with their limitations. I’d been the genius who’d scoffed and suggested we prove we could keep up with the twenty-somethings.
She’d glared at me but accepted the challenge. I had known she would. My best friend lived by the motto I’ll try anything once. However, this time, I suspected she was already plotting revenge.
Pride. It really was going to be the death of me.
My lungs burned, my vision blurred, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice whispered that this was what happened when you tried to outrun time itself. Because that’s what this was really about, wasn’t it? Not fitness. Not health. It was about the number that was creeping closer every day—fifty—like some kind of deadline I couldn’t negotiate with.
I’d been preparing for fifty the way some people prepare for natural disasters. Badly, and with a lot of denial.
The stages had become as predictable as seasons: First, came the refusal to acknowledge it was happening. If I didn’t celebrate, didn’t acknowledge the date, maybe time would just… pause. Then the fury at the cosmic injustice of it all—how was it that childhood summers had lasted forever, but now entire years disappeared like they’d been sucked into a black hole when I wasn’t looking? Next came the bargaining phase, where I’d seriously considered what fifteen thousand dollars paid to a plastic surgeon might buy me. Groupon offered me bargain deals on Botox and filler. On my budget, I could only beat back time a year or two, but I’d take it.
Finally, despair always hit like a freight train. I knew it was coming, heard it roaring down the tracks, but couldn’t manage to jump out of the way.
But acceptance? Though I’d spent my life counseling clients through psychological crises, I had never found the peace of acceptance within myself. Truthfully, the number didn’t matter as much as the way it categorized me—fitted me with an invisibility cloak, imprisoned me in an inescapable box of age-related expectations.
Someone always had an unsolicited opinion to share. “At your age, you have to expect arthritis, heartburn, and….” the list went on. “You can’t make your body do what it used to” (clearly, I proved that true). “Isn’t that outfit a little too young for you?” “Of course you have more cushion around your middle. That’s to be expected at your age.” “Aren’t you too old to be running around with that man (five years younger)?” “You need to adjust your expectations and settle for a nice, older man.” “At your age, sex and passion aren’t so important anymore; you need companionship and security in your golden years.”
I vowed to flash my middle finger to anything that began with “You’re too old for…” or “At your age…” Thus, I was on this godforsaken death machine, proving my youth—even if it killed me.
My legs had gone on autopilot, spinning mindlessly while my brain checked out entirely. It wasn’t until Madison’s hand landed on my arm that I realized the class had ended and I was the only one still pedaling furiously to nowhere.
“Sofia? You okay?”
I tried to speak, but only a wheeze came out. My legs, when I finally stopped them, felt like overcooked noodles. I swung them over the side of the bike and immediately crumpled to the floor, where the cool tile felt like heaven against my overheated skin.
“I’m going to die here,” I announced to the ceiling. “Tell my son I love him. Tell my ex-husband… actually, don’t tell him anything.”
Madison bent over, hands on her knees, still catching her breath. “Well, that was horrific. I’m never listening to you again.”
“That’s fair.” I managed a thumbs up from my position on the floor. “I deserve that.”
“Don’t you have dinner with Ron tonight?”
The mention of his name sent a little flutter through my chest—part excitement, part anxiety. “God, yes. This was such a bad idea. Help me up.”
Madison, a good four inches taller and twenty pounds heavier, grabbed my forearm and yanked. Together, we limped toward the locker room like two survivors of some kind of athletic apocalypse.
“So how long has it been with Ron now? Six months?”
I caught my reflection in the mirror above the sinks and winced. My face was the color of marinara sauce, and my hair looked like I’d been electrocuted. “Something like that. There’s not enough concealer in the world to fix this.”
“The price we pay to get in shape.” She ran the towel over her smooth, dark complexion, taming the stray hairs that had broken free from her tightly-woven black braids. “You know, I would’ve laid odds on Ron bailing by six weeks. No offense, but he has the attention span of a hamster.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. But you’re not wrong about his attention span. I think he could be diagnosed with ADHD.” I opened my locker, and a Victoria’s Secret bag tumbled out, spilling its contents across the bench. Black lace. Lots of it.
Madison’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, well. What do we have here?”
I quickly stuffed the lingerie back into the bag, glancing around to make sure the prenatal yoga crowd wasn’t watching. “It’s nothing. Just… you know. Trying to keep things interesting.”
“Uh-huh.” Madison’s expression was the one she wore when she was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. “How are things really going with him?”
Madison applied her signature burgundy lipstick with the precision of a surgeon. This was her superpower—the ability to look put-together in any circumstance. Once, we had been splashing around in the clear, Caribbean waters of Punta Cana, and she’d trekked back to our lounge chairs to re-apply her lipstick, then skipped across scorching sand to reach the sea again.
“Fine. Great. Why?”
“Because Ron strikes me as the kind of guy who’s allergic to anything resembling commitment. And you…” she paused, choosing her words carefully. “You get attached.”
“What’s wrong with wanting love—a real relationship?” Anger bubbled up, but down deep, I knew it wasn’t about Madison. “Just because every damn time I try it blows up in my face, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.” My poor gym bag bore the brunt as I kicked it, sending the contents all over the floor.
“Oh, honey, I know.” Her voice softened. “We’ve all been there. Anyone who’s single at our age has stepped on at least a few landmines. It’s tough out there. Finding a man to go the distance is like panning for gold in a puddle.
