![\"\"](\"https:\/\/ellenhopkinsbooks.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/11\/LoveLiesBeneath_9781476743653_hr.jpg\")
ABOUT THE BOOK<\/h3>\nABOUT THE BOOK<\/h3>\nFrom the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Collateral comes a gripping novel about a woman caught in a love affair that could be her salvation\u2026or her undoing.<\/p>\n
Tara is gorgeous, affluent, and forty. She lives in an impeccably restored Russian Hill mansion in San Francisco. Once a widow, twice divorced, she\u2019s a woman with a past she prefers keeping to herself.<\/p>\n
Enter Cavin Lattimore. He\u2019s handsome, kind, charming, and the surgeon assigned to Tara following a ski accident in Lake Tahoe. In the weeks it takes her to recover, Cavin sweeps her off her feet and their relationship blossoms into something Tara had never imagined possible. But then she begins to notice some strange things: a van parked outside her home at odd times, a break-in, threatening text messages and emails. She also starts to notice cracks in Cavin\u2019s seemingly perfect personality, like the suppressed rage his conniving teenage son brings out in him, and the discovery that Cavin hired a detective to investigate her immediately after they met.<\/p>\n
Now on crutches and housebound, Tara finds herself dependent on the new man in her life\u2014perhaps too much so. She\u2019s handling rocky relationships with her sister and best friend, who are envious of her glamour and freedom; her prickly brother-in-law, who is intimidated by her wealth and power; and her estranged mother. However perfect Tara\u2019s life appears, things are beginning to get messy.<\/p>\n
Writing in beautiful prose, Ellen Hopkins unveils a new style while evoking her signature poetic form that readers fell in love with in Collateral and Triangles.<\/p>\n
ONE
\nAs gyms go, this one is exceptionally clean. Hardwood gleams beneath the December sun flurrying down through the fog-misted skylight, and the place smells more like floor polish than the afternoon regulars\u2019 liberal drips of sweat. Even the Pilates mats manage to shed the odor of perspiration, and that pleases me. I prefer to inhale the scent of exertion only during coition.
\nCoition. Good word. Appears before \u201ccoitus\u201d in the dictionary, and though they mean the same thing, the softer \u201cshun\u201d sounds chicer than the \u201ctus\u201d to my ear. Not that class is requisite to the act itself, but in conversation, tone is everything.<\/p>\n
\u201cTara! Concentrate. Your form is terrible. Straighten your back. Lift your chest.\u201d<\/p>\n
I do as instructed but complain, \u201cSquats stink. And anyway, I thought you appreciated my form.\u201d<\/p>\n
Nick slinks closer, bends to lower his face close to mine, and I wait for his tongue to tease the pulse beneath my ear. Instead, he slaps my behind, hard enough to sting. \u201cYou told me your goal is perfection. You\u2019re not there yet.\u201d His words slap sharper than the gesture. \u201cThat\u2019s why you need me.\u201d<\/p>\n
Honestly, most personal trainers could accomplish the task. I\u2019ve handpicked a half dozen over the years, trying them on for size, so to speak. I\u2019ve kept Nick the longest because of ability above and beyond, not to mention outside of the gym.<\/p>\n
I do enjoy specialized service, and Nick has exceptional talents. Still, he has bruised my ego.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t need you at all, Mr. de la Rosa. In fact, I think we\u2019re finished . . .\u201d The look on his face is priceless. I\u2019m an excellent tipper. \u201cWith squats and thrusts and weights, at least for today. As for the postworkout workout, give me thirty to shower and I\u2019ll meet you out front.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are a wicked, wicked woman. Almost scary, in fact.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAlmost? You underestimate me, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n
Our little exchange did not go unnoticed, and envious eyes follow my retreat toward the women\u2019s shower room. That\u2019s correct, ladies. He and I are doing the filthy, and you\u2019re right to be jealous. What Nick de la Rosa may lack in discretionary income, he more than makes up for in carnal creativity. Who needs to go out when one can have so much fun staying in, playing doctor?<\/p>\n
My locker is well stocked with aromatic soaps and lotions, but before I use those I take a few minutes to douche away feminine fragrance, heightened by the previous ninety minutes of effort. One of my exes called me fastidious. Another claimed I\u2019m obsessively clean. But, as my late, great first husband once told me, \u201cA sweet pussy invites the tongue to tango.\u201d I plan on plenty of oral dance in an hour or so.<\/p>\n
Meanwhile, I run the water hot, perfume my hair with gardenia-scented shampoo, and soften my skin to silk with this fabulous vanilla-cedar shower gel. My eyes are closed against the final rinse of conditioner when a voice flutters softly within the tiled walls.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is that amazing incense smell?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s body wash from Kiehl\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cExpensive?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot too.\u201d I blink away water, and when I identify the person on the far side of the conversation, I hope the showerhead\u2019s splash disguises the serrated intake of my breath.<\/p>\n
Penelope teaches yoga, and while she\u2019s something to see in a tank top and stretch pants, naked she is simply exquisite. In a side-by-side comparison, I can hold my own against pretty much any woman here. But Penelope is one of those rare young things whose obviously natural curves and fawn suede complexion rival anything my pricey plastic surgeon could accomplish. If I had hackles, they\u2019d be bristling.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can find the body wash online. Vanilla and cedarwood.\u201d I grab a towel, cover my imperfect assets, and try not to stare at Penelope as she and I trade places.<\/p>\n
For the next twenty minutes, I work serums and moisturizer into my skin before applying foundation. Not sure why I\u2019m bothering. It will all come dripping off in a little while. Oh well. At least I\u2019ll look attractive until then and turn a few heads on my way to the door.<\/p>\n
December shrouds San Francisco in gray. I step out into the heavy, wet curtain and am happy I took the time to blow-dry my hair, which is long and thick and would stay damp otherwise. My stylist calls it problematic because it takes extra time to color. But I\u2019m determined to keep it as close to its original fox red as possible. My sister is two years younger, and at not quite thirty-nine her hair has gone completely silver. It\u2019s actually striking on her, but the look would be wrong for me.<\/p>\n
I stand back against the building beneath a wide awning, watching sidewalk travelers hustle by. Everyone walks quickly here, worried more about what\u2019s behind them than the appointments waiting for them up ahead. It\u2019s an eclectic stream\u2014high school kids with prominent piercings, street dwellers of various ages and genders, a young black woman in short leather, an older white man in ankle-length mink.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s quite the show, and I\u2019m enjoying it well enough until it strikes me that I\u2019ve been loitering here for a very long time. I look in through the big plate-glass window, beyond weight machines and treadmills. Oh, there he is, in loose jeans and a flimsy flannel shirt that doesn\u2019t exactly hide all the lovely musculature I\u2019ve almost memorized.<\/p>\n
Nick starts in this direction, but before he can take a dozen steps, Penelope cozies up behind him, pouts against the back of his neck, and lifts on her toes slightly, saying something into his ear. He spins and now his face is hidden. But I can see hers clearly. Her smile is more than flirtatious. It\u2019s tinted with affection. And her eyes, locked on his, tell a story I really don\u2019t want to know.<\/p>\n
I have hackles after all. Rage sizzles, white-hot, and my hands tremor. Unreasonably, it\u2019s Penelope my inner bitch wants to maul. It\u2019s not her fault Nick wants his steak and his cupcake, too. She must sense the devil\u2019s gaze, because her head swivels, side to side. When she glances over Nick\u2019s shoulder and notices me glaring through the glass, she gives him a playful shove. Does she realize he\u2019s meeting me? Do they have some quirky arrangement?<\/p>\n
Nick turns his back on pretty Penelope, heads straight for the door, and when it opens a shock wave of anger hits him square. He looks at me, and I swear he has no idea why I\u2019m pissed. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n
I force my voice low and level. \u201cWhy do you think something\u2019s wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, I don\u2019t know, Tara. Maybe it\u2019s your body language.\u201d He reaches for my elbow, tries to steer me clear of curious eyes on the far side of the window.<\/p>\n
I yank my arm away and hold my ground. \u201cDo not touch me again unless I say it\u2019s okay. Understand?\u201d He nods, dumbstruck, and I continue. \u201cDoes she know we\u2019re sleeping together?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDoes who know?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cStop playing stupid! God, I hate when men play stupid! Penelope. Does she know? You two obviously have something going on.\u201d<\/p>\n
Nick starts up the sidewalk, sure I\u2019ll follow, or at the very least let him leave me standing here like an idiot. \u201cYou don\u2019t own me, bitch.\u201d<\/p>\n
I have no choice but to take the bait. But I\u2019m not going to be gutted without a fight. I catch up to him and strike from behind, jabbing with words. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Nick. I thought you liked our arrangement, that it was mutually beneficial.\u201d<\/p>\n
He stops, turns to face me. \u201cI do like it. But there was never any mention of exclusivity.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are seeing Penelope, then?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, yeah. And others. It\u2019s not like I\u2019m engaged to any of you. Like I said, you don\u2019t own me.\u201d<\/p>\n
Maggot.<\/p>\n
\u201cI believe you said, \u2018You don\u2019t own me, bitch.\u2019\u200a\u201d<\/p>\n
The smirk slips from his face. \u201cUh yeah, guess I did, and I\u2019m sor\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShut up.\u201d Damage control? I don\u2019t think so. \u201cNo one talks to me like that, Nick, least of all hired help. And, make no mistake, that\u2019s exactly what you are . . . uh, were. I do hope your \u2018others\u2019 are as generous as I have been, because there will be no more under-the-table supplemental income from me. Come to think of it, I might have to 1099 you.\u201d<\/p>\n
My turn to smirk, and he doesn\u2019t like it. \u201cGo ahead and try. You paid me in cash and can\u2019t prove a thing.\u201d<\/p>\n
That makes me laugh. \u201cDo you really think I wouldn\u2019t take steps to protect myself, just in case you turned out to be the weasel you are? You know those nanny-cam things? So happens I have a boudoir cam. I don\u2019t suppose you ever noticed I always paid you before you got out of bed?\u201d<\/p>\n
Not completely true, but close enough. The camera covers the entire room. Anyway, it\u2019s not like I\u2019d really 1099 him, but it won\u2019t hurt to make him sweat a little. Damn, I am going to miss his sweat. But I could never have sex with him again, knowing he might have just come from someone else\u2019s bed. Who wants to sleep with a harem?<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, we\u2019re finished?\u201d<\/p>\n
Cheeky little bastard. \u201cYou needed confirmation of that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat about the gym?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis city is crawling with personal trainers. I\u2019m sure I can find another one as multifaceted as you. Meanwhile, I can handle my own workouts. I really don\u2019t need you, or anyone, to tell me how to squat.\u201d I start to walk away. Turn back. \u201cYou never did say if Penelope knew about me.\u201d<\/p>\n
He stares at me stupidly for a moment. Then he dares, \u201cI didn\u2019t see the need to disclose the dirty details.\u201d<\/p>\n
My hackles lower and I smile. \u201cI think I should take up yoga. Don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n
I turn my back on him, and as I start to walk away he calls, \u201cYou say one word to her and you will be very sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n
In a low, measured voice, I reply, \u201cI hope that\u2019s not a threat. This is a game you can\u2019t win.\u201d<\/p>\n
He changes tactics. \u201cYou don\u2019t understand. I love her.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen why have you been fucking me?\u201d<\/p>\n
I leave before he can answer. Wounded. Envious. I don\u2019t even know what love feels like. It\u2019s unfair an asshole like Nick should know. But if it\u2019s even remotely like having sex on the side with whomever, all the while claiming your heart is taken, maybe it\u2019s just as well that it\u2019s outside my realm of experience.<\/p>\n
REVIEWS FROM EW:<\/p>\n
\u201cThough Hopkins is known mostly for her young-adult novels, her latest is an absorbing grown-up story, told in beautiful blank verse, about three friends with messy family and romantic lives.\u201d\u2014EW.com<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
ABOUT THE BOOK From the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Collateral comes a gripping novel about a woman caught in a love affair that could be her salvation\u2026or her undoing. Tara is gorgeous, affluent, and forty. She lives in an impeccably restored Russian Hill mansion in San Francisco. Once a widow, twice divorced, she\u2019s a woman with a past she prefers keeping to herself. Enter Cavin Lattimore. He\u2019s handsome, kind, charming, and the surgeon assigned to Tara following a ski accident in Lake Tahoe. In the weeks it takes her to recover, Cavin sweeps her off her feet and their relationship blossoms into something Tara had never imagined possible. But then she begins to notice some strange things: a van parked outside her home at odd times, a break-in, threatening text messages and emails. She also starts to notice cracks in Cavin\u2019s seemingly perfect personality, like the suppressed rage his conniving teenage son brings out in him, and the discovery that Cavin hired a detective to investigate her immediately after they met. Now on crutches and housebound, Tara finds herself dependent on the new man in her life\u2014perhaps too much so. She\u2019s handling rocky relationships with her sister and best friend, who are envious of her glamour and freedom; her prickly brother-in-law, who is intimidated by her wealth and power; and her estranged mother. However perfect Tara\u2019s life appears, things are beginning to get messy. Writing in beautiful prose, Ellen Hopkins unveils a new style while evoking her signature poetic form that readers fell in love with in Collateral and Triangles. BOOK EXCERPT ONE As gyms go, this one is exceptionally clean. Hardwood gleams beneath the December sun flurrying down through the fog-misted skylight, and the place smells more like floor polish than the afternoon regulars\u2019 liberal drips of sweat. Even the Pilates mats manage to shed the odor of perspiration, and that pleases me. I prefer to inhale the scent of exertion only during coition. Coition. Good word. Appears before \u201ccoitus\u201d in the dictionary, and though they mean the same thing, the softer \u201cshun\u201d sounds chicer than the \u201ctus\u201d to my ear. Not that class is requisite to the act itself, but in conversation, tone is everything. \u201cTara! Concentrate. Your form is terrible. Straighten your back. Lift your chest.\u201d I do as instructed but complain, \u201cSquats stink. And anyway, I thought you appreciated my form.\u201d Nick slinks closer, bends to lower his face close to mine, and I wait for his tongue to tease the pulse beneath my ear. Instead, he slaps my behind, hard enough to sting. \u201cYou told me your goal is perfection. You\u2019re not there yet.\u201d His words slap sharper than the gesture. \u201cThat\u2019s why you need me.\u201d Honestly, most personal trainers could accomplish the task. I\u2019ve handpicked a half dozen over the years, trying them on for size, so to speak. I\u2019ve kept Nick the longest because of ability above and beyond, not to mention outside of the gym. I do enjoy specialized service, and Nick has exceptional talents. Still, he has bruised my ego. \u201cI don\u2019t need you at all, Mr. de la Rosa. In fact, I think we\u2019re finished . . .\u201d The look on his face is priceless. I\u2019m an excellent tipper. \u201cWith squats and thrusts and weights, at least for today. As for the postworkout workout, give me thirty to shower and I\u2019ll meet you out front.\u201d \u201cYou are a wicked, wicked woman. Almost scary, in fact.\u201d \u201cAlmost? You underestimate me, sir.\u201d Our little exchange did not go unnoticed, and envious eyes follow my retreat toward the women\u2019s shower room. That\u2019s correct, ladies. He and I are doing the filthy, and you\u2019re right to be jealous. What Nick de la Rosa may lack in discretionary income, he more than makes up for in carnal creativity. Who needs to go out when one can have so much fun staying in, playing doctor? My locker is well stocked with aromatic soaps and lotions, but before I use those I take a few minutes to douche away feminine fragrance, heightened by the previous ninety minutes of effort. One of my exes called me fastidious. Another claimed I\u2019m obsessively clean. But, as my late, great first husband once told me, \u201cA sweet pussy invites the tongue to tango.\u201d I plan on plenty of oral dance in an hour or so. Meanwhile, I run the water hot, perfume my hair with gardenia-scented shampoo, and soften my skin to silk with this fabulous vanilla-cedar shower gel. My eyes are closed against the final rinse of conditioner when a voice flutters softly within the tiled walls. \u201cWhat is that amazing incense smell?\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s body wash from Kiehl\u2019s.\u201d \u201cExpensive?\u201d \u201cNot too.\u201d I blink away water, and when I identify the person on the far side of the conversation, I hope the showerhead\u2019s splash disguises the serrated intake of my breath. Penelope teaches yoga, and while she\u2019s something to see in a tank top and stretch pants, naked she is simply exquisite. In a side-by-side comparison, I can hold my own against pretty much any woman here. But Penelope is one of those rare young things whose obviously natural curves and fawn suede complexion rival anything my pricey plastic surgeon could accomplish. If I had hackles, they\u2019d be bristling. \u201cYou can find the body wash online. Vanilla and cedarwood.\u201d I grab a towel, cover my imperfect assets, and try not to stare at Penelope as she and I trade places. For the next twenty minutes, I work serums and moisturizer into my skin before applying foundation. Not sure why I\u2019m bothering. It will all come dripping off in a little while. Oh well. At least I\u2019ll look attractive until then and turn a few heads on my way to the door. December shrouds San Francisco in gray. I step out into the heavy, wet curtain and am happy I took the time to blow-dry my hair, which is long and thick and would stay damp otherwise. My stylist calls it problematic because it takes extra time to color. But I\u2019m determined to keep it as close to its original fox red as possible. My sister is two years younger, and at not quite thirty-nine her hair has gone completely silver. It\u2019s actually striking on her, but the look would be wrong for me. I stand back against the building beneath a wide awning, watching sidewalk travelers hustle by. Everyone walks quickly here, worried more about what\u2019s behind them than the appointments waiting for them up ahead. It\u2019s an eclectic stream\u2014high school kids with prominent piercings, street dwellers of various ages and genders, a young black woman in short leather, an older white man in ankle-length mink. It\u2019s quite the show, and I\u2019m enjoying it well enough until it strikes me that I\u2019ve been loitering here for a very long time. I look in through the big plate-glass window, beyond weight machines and treadmills. Oh, there he is, in loose jeans and a flimsy flannel shirt that doesn\u2019t exactly hide all the lovely musculature I\u2019ve almost memorized. Nick starts in this direction, but before he can take a dozen steps, Penelope cozies up behind him, pouts against the back of his neck, and lifts on her toes slightly, saying something into his ear. He spins and now his face is hidden. But I can see hers clearly. Her smile is more than flirtatious. It\u2019s tinted with affection. And her eyes, locked on his, tell a story I really don\u2019t want to know. I have hackles after all. Rage sizzles, white-hot, and my hands tremor. Unreasonably, it\u2019s Penelope my inner bitch wants to maul. It\u2019s not her fault Nick wants his steak and his cupcake, too. She must sense the devil\u2019s gaze, because her head swivels, side to side. When she glances over Nick\u2019s shoulder and notices me glaring through the glass, she gives him a playful shove. Does she realize he\u2019s meeting me? Do they have some quirky arrangement? Nick turns his back on pretty Penelope, heads straight for the door, and when it opens a shock wave of anger hits him square. He looks at me, and I swear he has no idea why I\u2019m pissed. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d I force my voice low and level. \u201cWhy do you think something\u2019s wrong?\u201d \u201cWell, I don\u2019t know, Tara. Maybe it\u2019s your body language.\u201d He reaches for my elbow, tries to steer me clear of curious eyes on the far side of the window. I yank my arm away and hold my ground. \u201cDo not touch me again unless I say it\u2019s okay. Understand?\u201d He nods, dumbstruck, and I continue. \u201cDoes she know we\u2019re sleeping together?\u201d \u201cDoes who know?\u201d \u201cStop playing stupid! God, I hate when men play stupid! Penelope. Does she know? You two obviously have something going on.\u201d Nick starts up the sidewalk, sure I\u2019ll follow, or at the very least let him leave me standing here like an idiot. \u201cYou don\u2019t own me, bitch.\u201d I have no choice but to take the bait. But I\u2019m not going to be gutted without a fight. I catch up to him and strike from behind, jabbing with words. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Nick. I thought you liked our arrangement, that it was mutually beneficial.\u201d He stops, turns to face me. \u201cI do like it. But there was never any mention of exclusivity.\u201d \u201cYou are seeing Penelope, then?\u201d \u201cWell, yeah. And others. It\u2019s not like I\u2019m engaged to any of you. Like I said, you don\u2019t own me.\u201d Maggot. \u201cI believe you said, \u2018You don\u2019t own me, bitch.\u2019\u200a\u201d The smirk slips from his face. \u201cUh yeah, guess I did, and I\u2019m sor\u2014\u201d \u201cShut up.\u201d Damage control? I don\u2019t think so. \u201cNo one talks to me like that, Nick, least of all hired help. And, make no mistake, that\u2019s exactly what you are . . . uh, were. I do hope your \u2018others\u2019 are as generous as I have been, because there will be no more under-the-table supplemental income from me. Come to think of it, I might have to 1099 you.\u201d My turn to smirk, and he doesn\u2019t like it. \u201cGo ahead and try. You paid me in cash and can\u2019t prove a thing.\u201d That makes me laugh. \u201cDo you really think I wouldn\u2019t take steps to protect myself, just in case you turned out to be the weasel you are? You know those nanny-cam things? So happens I have a boudoir cam. I don\u2019t suppose you ever noticed I always paid you before you got out of bed?\u201d Not completely true, but close enough. The camera covers the entire room. Anyway, it\u2019s not like I\u2019d really 1099 him, but it won\u2019t hurt to make him sweat a little. Damn, I am going to miss his sweat. But I could never have sex with him again, knowing he might have just come from someone else\u2019s bed. Who wants to sleep with a harem? \u201cSo, we\u2019re finished?\u201d Cheeky little bastard. \u201cYou needed confirmation of that?\u201d \u201cWhat about the gym?\u201d \u201cThis city is crawling with personal trainers. I\u2019m sure I can find another one as multifaceted as you. Meanwhile, I can handle my own workouts. I really don\u2019t need you, or anyone, to tell me how to squat.\u201d I start to walk away. Turn back. \u201cYou never did say if Penelope knew about me.\u201d He stares at me stupidly for a moment. Then he dares, \u201cI didn\u2019t see the need to disclose the dirty details.\u201d My hackles lower and I smile. \u201cI think I should take up yoga. Don\u2019t you?\u201d I turn my back on him, and as I start to walk away he calls, \u201cYou say one word to her and you will be very sorry.\u201d In a low, measured voice, I reply, \u201cI hope that\u2019s not a threat. This is a game you can\u2019t win.\u201d He changes tactics. \u201cYou don\u2019t understand. I love her.\u201d \u201cThen why have you been fucking me?\u201d I leave before he can answer. Wounded. Envious. I don\u2019t even know what…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-140","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ellenhopkinsbooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/140","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ellenhopkinsbooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ellenhopkinsbooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ellenhopkinsbooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ellenhopkinsbooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/ellenhopkinsbooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/140\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":404,"href":"https:\/\/ellenhopkinsbooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/140\/revisions\/404"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ellenhopkinsbooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}