Blurb: Divorced, broke, and living with her parents—forty-year-old Shannon Johnson is clearly winning at life.

She’s so awesome, she accidentally uses a tampon irradiated in Kazakhstan. Suddenly, this mush-mouthed loser becomes a superheroine who can shoot menstrual cramps from her fingers.

No, really.

But her new mission of saving NYC’s abused women gets complex for Super 40. With her teleporting partner Dolly Poppin’, Super 40 runs afoul of domestic abusers, jerky news anchors, and an evil scientist with cats. Even worse, someone’s trying to kill the partners for reasons unknown, which is just plain rude. Is it the mysterious flying Antihero? The robo-kittens? Or one of the delightful internet trolls always eager to call Shannon fat and ugly?

No matter, for the amazing Super 40 will get her mojo back through butt-kicking, self-love, and some hot dates with the world’s yummiest superhero.

If you ever thought Bridget Jones needed a borked-out superpower, you won’t be able to put down the hilarious adventures of SUPER 40. She’s a heroine for every woman society deems unsuitable, which is basically all of us.

To heck with that!

 

Lucy Woodhall wrote the Samanta Lytton series which I enjoyed – I remember laughing a lot. After reading the excerpt below, this one looks really cute too. 

Goodreads l Kindle

Excerpt:

How to Become a Superheroine, Step Ten: Beware of Antiheroes. And Their Lies and Kissing. Mostly Their Kissing.

Where the heck was I? I sat up on a strange couch in a strange place. Had I gone back in time? Hadn’t this already happened to me once today, waking up on an unknown sofa? This one was a deep navy blue and as expensive as the last. Who were all these kidnappey people with couches that cost the same as a boob job? My butt was in the wrong line of work.

My head swam. And hurt. It swurt. I rewound my memory like an old, degraded VHS tape. …I’d gone shopping with Kayla for a dress. …I’d buttered myself into said dress. But I didn’t remember dinner with Karma. And a quick peek out the window told me this was not Chris’ house.

Okay, time to be really, super afraid and freaked out. I forced my breathing to slow because I’d begun to hyperventilate, my brain turning foggy in addition to the swurt-ing.

I needed to leave. I stood, wobbly at first, but once I took off my heels, I was a happier camper. My purse sat right there on the table next to me, but—darn it!—my cell phone was gone.

 Think, Shannon, think. I’d gone to the restaurant. Yes, I remembered that, in a swirly sort-of way. I’d waited for Chris…but I didn’t remember him. I remembered someone else…

“How do you feel?” came a voice—that voice—from behind me.

I spun around and there he stood…whoever the heck. Duke Hottie McSexington of Kidnapshire.

“Who are you? Where am I?” The crackle of power buzzed around my fingers. He stood about ten feet away in the fancy living room—one step closer, and I’d whomp him.

He held out his hands like you would warn away a hissing snake, but he smiled the winningest grin to ever grace a face. I wanted to both kiss and slap him, which was just plain sick—he’d kidnapped me!

“Shannon, I merely want to talk.”

“This is not how you ‘talk’ to women. Why is that so tough to figure out?” I fired. He leaped away fast—insanely fast—but I clipped him, and he yelped as he slammed into the rug. For good measure, I shot another blast to give myself time.

I ran toward the door, my shoes abandoned, my bag under my arm like a football. I passed him, and he grabbed my ankle. Down, down, splat!Tears sprang into my eyes. My nose throbbed to the point where little birdies circled my brain. I heard a pathetic whimper coming from far away and belatedly realized it was me.

 Up. I must get up. I made it to my knees before his arms slammed around me from behind. His hands clamped over mine before I could fire again. “No more of that!” he blurted.

His breath came in great, fast gulps, and, for a second, we breathed as one on the gorgeous Persian rug. God, he smelled hhnnngggngngg…was his cologne derived from the sex glands of Idris Elba?

He gasped, “I know I’ve been a shit, and I don’t deserve it, but please hear me out?”

“Let me up. Now.”

He did.

I sat stunned for a second before I shot to my feet and bolted to the exit. I flung it open to reveal a corridor. The front door of this place was to my right, so I went for it, expecting a lock, a guard. I braced myself.

And met the night air. I stopped on the bottom step, not recognizing the swanky neighborhood.

His body blocked the light shining from behind me and cast a long shadow onto the empty sidewalk. “No guards or anything, you see,” he said with mind-breaking smugness.

“Congrats. What a bootstrappy kidnapping you’ve perpetrated.”

“I just want to speak with you, and the talk I have in mind won’t go over well in public. You see, I’m the Antihero.”

“Of what? Your delusions?”

His mouth broke into a grin. “You don’t do that mush-mouth, nonsense-talking thing when you’re angry.”

I lost my breath for a moment. “Wh—how…how do you know that? Have we met?”

“Wouldn’t I be the hero of my delusions?” he asked smoothly, completely ignoring the implication of what he’d revealed. “Even Hitler thought he was behaving heroically. Bad example—I heard it as soon as I said it.”

“Is this even your house?”

“Why else would I be here?”

“Quit answering my questions with questions!” I strode to the railing of the stairs and flopped my hip against it.

My jaw locked in annoyance, I squinted up at him. He was nothing but a backlit blur. “The Antihero.” I packed as much contempt into the words as possible. The Antihero was the financial villain of New York. Ponzi Schemes, hostile takeovers from shadowy overseas companies, the ruination of entire stock exchanges—he did it all.

“You know—” I said—“naming yourself ‘Antihero’ is just pathetic. It implies something romantic, not cowardice or greed.”

“You think I do what I do out of greed?”

“I swear, Duke Hottie, if you ask me one more question—”

He sauntered down the steps to stand on mine. “Duke what?” His face animated with delight like some sort of Muppet. “Oh, damn, that was a question. Stop, stop with the scary hands—I need my cock.”

“Not with me, you don’t.” I started toward the street, my feet already hating me for my lack of shoes. We aren’t even running anymore! they protested. You’re gonna catch street hepatitis.

This was what happened when you tried to jump from Floozy Level One too fast: A roofie from a hot scoundrel. I gave my body a self-evaluation from the inside, and I didn’t think he’d done anything…illicit to me. Nasty emotions chased themselves around my chest—anger, fear, regret. Not that I’d done anything wrong.

Fast steps clomped behind me, and I whirled around to see him approaching. Bam! I fired and, this time, achieved a direct hit. He screamed and fell to his knees.

Good.

“Is that man okay?” A lady walking hand-in-hand with her girlfriend on the other side of the street expressed concern for the Antihero. For him! I was about to tell her we should call the police when the rat fink said—

“I’m fine.” He groaned and shook in pain. “I just told her I cheated on her.”

The couple gasped and clutched each other to their bosoms. “What a shithead!” the other woman exclaimed before telling me I’d done a nice job.

The first lady flipped Antihero off before they left.

I shook my head at the pile of pathetic villainy at my feet. “Goodbye. I’m gonna go search for my hero now. He’s the one who gets the girl. I mean, not permanently, probably. We’re not looking for anything complicated, anyhow, you know? Just—it’s just fun and casual. Because I can do that stuff now. I’m an independent woman.”

He rolled onto his back. “Are you going to break into a round of Destiny’s Child?”

I put my hands on my knees and bent down. “You don’t deserve Destiny’s Child.”