The First Kiss

Michel Prince

The movie 50 First Dates will never stand the test of time as one of the best movies ever, but it has one statement that is so true.  “Nothing beats a first kiss.”  She’s right about that one.  The anticipation, the rush, all culminating into a passionate or sweet or gentle or … it doesn’t matter, because it only happens once.

Thirty years later, are you going to remember that first kiss? Thirty seconds later are you going to still treasure it.  Maybe I’ve been married too long, but I know I’ll never get that first kiss again, so I make sure my characters have a memorable ones.

My first series will be published this fall, so here’s an unedited, but reworked about seventy five thousand times, first kiss.

A half hour later we arrived in Bloomington for our tournament.  We realized we had a bye in the first round, so we had plenty of time to warm up.  I had eaten my banana and cereal bar, but after stretching and a few rounds of pepper, I realized my water bottle was empty.  The hallway was a ghost town, maybe everyone was watching one of the first three games.  The water fountain was at the end of the hall, as I started to fill up my bottle, it came over me again.  The feeling of security.

He had come to my game! His hand was on the small of my back.  I froze, except for my head, which tilted slightly back in the direction of his body.  The bottle overflowed and water splashed on my shoes, causing me to jump back, spilling a little bit more, but this time on his shorts.  I put the top on immediately and laughed nervously.

“Sorry about that.  At least it’s lower so you won’t have to explain it.”

I slowly looked up from his thigh to his hips, gliding over his chest and finally to his face, perfect with the sunlight streaming through the narrow window down the hall.  He was smiling again, mischief in his eyes.  Suddenly, I was against the wall.  He had caught my free wrist and held it over my head.  He bent down to look me in the eyes.

“I need you to let me give you something.  Please don’t object, but I think you need a good luck kiss.  I’m sure you’ll do perfectly if I give this to you.  Are you willing to let me test my theory?”

My heart was pounding my lips ached for his touch.  They tingled, as I hoped for a long, strong kiss.  I nodded slightly, closed my eyes and tilted my head up.  His free hand gently stroked back a stray hair from my face, then he cupped my head.  His thumb stroked my cheekbone.  I felt him lean down slowly, my lips burned.  I could feel his breath, as he brought his lips closer to my mine.

Sorry, couldn’t do it.  Isn’t the anticipation great …

Feel free to follow the story at www.michelprincebooks.com or follow me on facebook.

 

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Virgin Rebel (Stop that Smirking!)

Remmy Duchene

Okay, so I’ve been around a while, right? Boxing from one publisher to another and recently I’ve decided to settle down, put some roots in. I’ve chose three houses and will be sticking with those.  Rebel is one of the three.  How did I become a Rebel? Well, sit back, grab a beer, put your feet up and listen to my epic story of intrigue, love and betrayal…erm…wait…sorry, wrong story. This one is a little less dramatic. A while back I got this email from a friend saying Rebel Ink was looking for short stories for a Father’s day Anthology. I mean for those of you who know me, know I don’t do anthology. Well, more accurately I RARELY do Anthologies. Why? They are so much work! But Who can pass up a sexy dad? They are so scrumptious and yummy I just had to jump in head first.

My story Simply Irresistable is interracial (of course) and steamy so hot it could singe your eye brows lol. Here’s the blurb: Paul Anderson is attracted to Anthony Duncan. The problem? Antony is one of Paul’s student’s teacher. Though he knew any attempt at anything more could end in tears, he just can’t seem to help himself.

For years, Anthony Duncan had secret flings away from his son. He wants to protect his son for different lovers and the drama that could bring. Three years ago he just stopped dating–that is until he meets his son’s teacher and just couldn’t seem to keep his mind off the Sexy, blue eyed devil. But a chance meeting on the dance floor broke the flood gates wide open. And if these two aren’t too scared to dive right in, they just may have something worth having.

Trust me, it’s going to be delicious!

My second Rebel title is a single title and release of my Straight Through the Heart story. It’s now retitled “Second Time Around” and it is now longer and more detailed than the short.  Long story short, it was in need of a good home and after I did some serious overhauling, Rebel decided to take a chance on it. I am hoping you will enjoy it just as much as I did writing it.

Anyways, thanks for reading my little thing there and yes I am glad to be a Rebel…now all I need to do is get a couple of neck tats, a nose piercing and Voila!

Hugs

Remmy Duchene

www.remmyduchene.com

 

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Something in the Air

Siobhan Kinkade

Happy Birthday to me!

Since I’m stuck in the house with a newborn and quite unable to do much, I love that I have the opportunity to spend my 30th birthday here with my Rebel family.  It really is like a family, too… I love that we can all be so open and honest with each other, and the support is outstanding.  I’ve made some wonderful friends here over the last several months, and with what I have in store for you today, I have to say that every bit of the journey has been worth it.

So that having been said… I love you all.

Oh yeah, and take a look… it’s my book!

~+Blurb+~

Kelly Ray Patrick is a sweet, southern girl who has never been lucky, either in finances or in love.  But as the recent co-recipient of a lottery jackpot, she and her friends have set out on a Valentines-themed singles cruise in the hope of relaxing and meeting Mr. Right.  Only, to Kelly Ray’s surprise, Mr. Right appears to be her best friend, Dominic James.  Nic appears to be feeling the effects of the trip as well, and has discovered an interest in Kelly Ray as well.  The only thing stopping them:  their friend, Trevor, who has been carrying a torch for Kelly Ray since they were all kids.  Will respect for that friendship be enough to stem the budding relationship, or will they throw caution to the wind and indulge in their desires?

~+Excerpt+~

“Will you tell me what was wrong?”

Kelly Ray sighed.  “Its…embarrassing.”

“It can’t possibly be more embarrassing than the day you ripped your dress completely off in front of half the neighborhood when you jumped out Grandma’s apple tree.”   Kelly Ray groaned and hid her face against his chest.  Twelve years later, he still hadn’t let that one go and he still found it funny.  Proving her unstated point, a laugh rumbled through his body and his arms went all the way around her, the feeling somewhere between comforting and possessive.  His spicy, male scent filled her lungs and her belly somersaulted.  “You survived utter mortification and you can still look me in the face.  This can’t possibly compare.”

“Wanna bet?” she muttered against his shoulder.

“What?”

“Nothing.”  Kelly Ray shook her head and looked up at him.  In all the ways she’d dreamed this would happen she never thought she’d have to look him in the face and tell him he was the thing that had her all tied up in knots.  She sighed, and just as she opened her mouth to speak the singer let out a loud whoop, and everyone in the room cheered.

“Alright!” he cried out, “Since you liked that one so much, here’s another slow one…just for the lovers.”  He winked at Kelly Ray when she scowled up at him, and the music started again.  She moved like she would pull away from Nic but with his hands on her hips she could only get as far away as his arms’ reach.

“Come on, Kee… tell me what’s up.”

“You,” she said before she could think her way out of it.  Nic blinked.

“Me?” he asked.  “What did I do?”  She sighed and covered her face with her hands.  Nic stepped up to her and hugged her tightly, his lips right against her ear while he swayed her out into the middle of the dance floor again.  “Tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

“Nothing,” she sighed, glad to have her hands to hide behind.  Not so glad that she was crammed against his strong, sexy, wonderful-smelling chest.  “You didn’t do anything at all…that’s the problem.”

“Was I supposed to?” he asked, voice husky, his bottom lip brushing her earlobe in what she could have sworn was a taunt.  Kelly Ray shivered, her brain spinning into overdrive as it flashed images of all of the other places she wanted his lips.

“No,” she squeaked, fighting back the hot sting of tears which threatened to flow down her cheeks.  “You weren’t supposed to do anything…you didn’t do anything.” She was babbling but she couldn’t help it.  “It’s all me… I think I’ve just lost my mind is all.”  Nic pulled back, holding her by the shoulders.

“Kelly Ray, look at me,” he ordered.  She hesitated and slowly lowered her hands.  The burning look returned to his eyes.  Every muscle in his body was tense and quivering – she could feel his hands shaking as they so gently held her arms. “You can’t possibly know what you’re doing to me,” Nic almost whispered.  She blinked.

“What are you talking about?”  Kelly Ray questioned.

“Forgive me?”

“For what, Nic?”

Nic pulled her close and in front of the hundred or so witnesses in the club, he kissed her.

~+~+~+~

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On Being Bad

Ursula Whistler

My tagline as an author is “I’m not bad. I just write that way.” It’s like I am apologizing already for what I write, which is erotic romance.

Am I apologizing? I don’t think so. I don’t live a life that screams “I write sexy, sexy stuff, the kind of stuff that would make you blush in mixed company.” Honestly, who does?

Wait. Don’t answer that yet. I live in New Orleans, so I happen to know quite a few people who live a bit louder when it comes to being sexy and out there. Let me list a few:

A friend who owns a lingerie shop with some amazing outfits. She and the co-owner of the shop once tweeted, “We’ve run out of crotchless panties. #NOLAgetyourfreakon That store has beautiful robes, long gloves for stripping, bustiers, and some seriously sexy bra and panty sets.

A burlesque dancer I met while at a bachelorette party at the above lingerie shop. If it is an option for your bachelorette party, find a burlesque dancer (different than a stripper) to show you and your girlfriends some alluring moves to tantalize the men (or women) in your lives. Your partners will really appreciate it.

Me, but only when I’m in full Ursula mode. I’ll wear shorter skirts, lower cut shirts, bustiers out of duct tape, and I have a great one with a zipper down the front. Yep, I will wear that on Mardi Gras or Halloween. Of course, on those days, I wear a wild wig, because—WHY NOT! If you lived in a city that enjoyed the whole masking process, you would, too.

Perhaps my motto should be, I’m a tiny bit bad, and I certainly write that way.

Ursula

UrsulaWhistler.com

 

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The Intruder

Janelle Lee

Our dogs sometimes sit on command, they rarely fetch, they take themselves for a walk and they know how to bark. They bark when the cat is around. They bark when someone walks passed and they can really get the decibel count up when someone enters the yard.

During the day it is annoying but tolerable, at night it is unbearable and excruciating.

Climbing into bed suffering from the flu, which had taken a vice like grip on me and being allergic to anything that is likely to offer any comfort is bad enough, the last thing I needed or wanted was dogs barking. But bark they did.

“Shut up,” I growled. Of course being as obedient as the kids they promptly defied the direct order. They continued to bark. You want to ignore it. You want to kill them. Throwing the covers over your head doesn’t do it.  Even the threat of being taken to the pound wasn’t enough to silence them. I knew had to get up.

It was ten to midnight and they had turned feral. I figured with the lack of sleep, a temperature and a head that was threatening to pound right off my shoulders they didn’t know what feral was but they would. Oh, how they would.  I threw back the covers.

“The dogs are barking,” the youngest complained as I had my head was buried in the kitchen cupboard. I had already cleared out the laundry cupboard. “Really I hadn’t noticed. Where’s the torch?”

“You are making a mess.”

“You’d know all about that wouldn’t you seeing as your bedroom has been declared a disaster zone.” I snapped. I was dying too but that wasn’t about to stop me. Four torches and not one could be found when it was needed. My hand located one. I hit the switch… nothing.

“Battery must be flat,” number two son suggested, “Did you know the dogs are barking?”

I used all of what was left of my self control not to deck him with it.

The youngest went to investigate. She came back to inform me that the dogs were barking at grass.

“How can it be grass?” I retorted, “We haven’t had grass in the backyard for years we have dirt. You know that brown looking stuff?”

She shrugged. “Whatever… I am going to bed.”

“No one sleeps until I do.”

With the kids following me I made my way towards the dogs armed with the broom and a torch that had an unsteady shine.  The dogs looked up at me wearing their proudest smiles. I rolled my eyes.

The youngest pointed. “See I told you it was grass.”

The eyes did a three sixty. I took a mental note to have her eyesight tested. “It’s an echidna.”

“Wow,” she cooed, “can we keep him?”

I had identified two enemies now I just had to get rid of them.

I tried shooing. The echidna dug in deeper and so did the youngest.

With the dogs barking, the youngest cooing and my snap happy son taking photos I made my way back inside and rang for help. Instead I got someone impersonating Animal Control. A cheery voice greeted me.  I mentioned my problem with the echidna.

“A what?”

“Echidna. How do I get rid of it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How big is it?”

I wondered what difference that made.

“Four or five feet?” he asked.

Four or five feet! “I said echidna, mate, not elephant. The dogs are going ballistic.”

“Oh. Put them in the shed and let the echidna have a clear path.”

To where? How about if I open the gate and bake him a parting gift as well?

“If you need any more help just ring me back.”

What help? I stared at the phone in my hand.

My husband arrived home.  “Put the dogs in the shed,” I said. The shed door was opened to reveal the blue tongue lizard. “What is this a wildlife park? You have to be kidding.” The dogs had a new foe to contend with.  Their barking echoed through the shed.  “Get them out of the shed. ”

“It’s scared,” the young one called out as she stood guard over the echidna.

“It came here. No one forced it. I don’t recall a gun being held to its head.”

“Which end is it head?” she asked.

My husband looked to the ball of spikes. “I am not picking that up.”

The shovel was produced along with the cardboard box. We stood and looked at the echidna now inside the box pondering our next move. “Now what?”

Now it’s time to bring in the big guns. I rang WIRES.

“Female or male it is hard to tell,” the woman informed me.

“I am not checking.”

She laughed. “You are lucky not many people get to see them in their natural habitat.”

My back yard is not a habitat. It is barely a backyard. It is a grassless wasteland.

“Whatever you do, do not put the echidna in a cardboard box,” she warned.

Oops.

“What is she saying?” My husband asked.

“It’s all good.”

“If it is a female she could have babies nearby,” the woman continued.

Great.

“So don’t put the echidna any more than fifty metres away.”

There we were like thieves in the night making our way into the grapevines to dump an echidna.  After tipping the echidna out of the box we stood there as the youngest decided to do a narration of his/her time with us. “He is…”

“A sleep pilfering rodent,” I snapped. “I am going to bed.”

It’s over, I thought as I climbed back into bed.  Ten minutes later the dogs started up again. “Now what?” I screamed out into the darkness. I made my way outside and stared down at the echidna. It was back. I couldn’t believe it.“Get rid of it,” I demanded of my husband.

“What am I suppose to do?”

“Take it for a drive and dump it.”

“I can’t do that what about the babies?”

“What about my sleep? We don’t even know if it is a female. It is far too late in the day to suddenly become an animal liberationist.”

“But do you want to be responsible for a mother abandoning her babies?”

That did it. “Alright this is how it is going to work either you get rid of the echidna permanently or I get rid of you.”

He placed the echidna into the box and put it in the car.

“What about the babies?” the youngest whined.

“Don’t you start. It’s a male,” I demanded.

“How do you know?”

“Because a male never asks for directions.”

 

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Places We Write

Nancy LaPonzina

So, where do you write? Where does the light hit you just perfectly, the background sounds common enough they don’t distract you wondering what they are, and where the words all come together to build that great scene? Finding the right spot to get words to paragraphs when the muse visits is key to a healthy writing habit. And we all do know the secret—keep writing—as critique partner, Eleanor says. She has her “creation station,” a nook off the dining room. Her latest draft is now over 36,000 words and growing each day so she’s found the setting productive for her.

I have a small studio, best described as—well, small. I’m surrounded by 136 writing books … some actually in a bookcase, others I dip into for encouragement or answers. These books-in-action are stacked on the floor on either side of my chair. On my desk, two printers flank the screen effectively squeezing out most everything else. The stapler, modem, and router heroically fight gravity to stay on board as I turn notebook pages from my WIP notebook. I like to write first in a notebook, then enter the text into my document. The challenge is finding a place to rest the notebook so it doesn’t hit the keyboard. Why the stapler? Seems it would be handy to organize pages together? I really don’t know. But every time I put it into the drawer, I need the darn thing.

Writing under Carolina Blue skies also is an option I like. Outside, in a quiet garden area, sometimes even in my PJs (shhh) there is nothing better. Do I accomplish my daily goal out there? Mostly, yes. Unless the wonderful fragrance between hyacinths and lilacs wafts from the Butterfly bush, and takes me completely out of my story and into nature. That’s a garden hazard.

Now I may get moonbeams about a character or plot away from these two locations, but I quickly jot the idea down and seriously pursue it back at my writing place. Some writers create in a cafe, airport, library, car or bus. Doesn’t work for me. And where else but my studio would I get the completely random, adrenalin-producing pounce our Maine Coon cat, Copy delivers? Believe me, that changes my point of view like nothing else!

Getting the great words down in quantity is all that matters, though. Writers write. Where do you write?

 

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Travel Then and Now – A Rant

Blair McDowell

I love travel. That is, I love being in distant places. But I HATE getting to them.

I   remember my first transatlantic flight. In the airport we simply checked in at the counter and turned our luggage over to the agent. I’ve always traveled light, but I remember other passengers checking mounds of luggage with no difficulty.

Once our bags were tagged we walked to the gate. There were no x-ray machines. No full body scans. No pat-downs or invasive body searches. No rude and unpleasant robots invading our personal space or pawing through our carry- on bags.

The plane was waiting at the gate. We were not required to be there waiting for the plane three hours in advance of our scheduled flight time. It was rarely “delayed” or “cancelled”. It was simply sitting there, welcoming us, the honored passengers.

When we were called, we went downstairs to doors leading to outside. If it was raining, an attendant was standing at the foot of the stairs with umbrellas we could use. We walked across the tarmac to our plane and climbed steps to get into it. If it was a small plane we had to duck a bit at the doorway.

On board, the seats were comfortably wide. Two across, never three or four. There was sufficient leg room for my long legs so that my knees were never pressed uncomfortably into the seat in front of me.

If it was a long flight, meals were served. Real food, served on real dishes and eaten with real cutlery, not plastic forks. There was no charge for this, of course.

Which brings me to the matter of price. In general the “tourist class” seats, the ones of which I always availed myself, were one price and the “first class” seats were another. Back in those halcyon days there were just two prices for seats on any given airplane. It was neither easy nor necessary to shop around for the “best price” in those pre-computer, pre Travelocity, pre Expedia days. We just bought our tickets at the ticket counter or availed ourselves of the services of a travel agent.

Hotels, we booked by letter. We used print guides like Michelin or Fodor to make our choices, and then had leisurely, extended, hand written interchanges with the proprietors regarding our needs and their ability to fill those needs.

It was fun to receive personal notes from small hotels in Paris, Avignon, Vienna and Budapest, assuring is that they ‘awaited our presence with pleasure’.

We spent months planning and anticipating travel. We were traveling on a budget. Often our bathrooms were down the hall rather than ensuite. We picked up bread and fruit and cheese for our picnic lunches and then splurged on dinners in Michelin starred restaurants. Ones where the owner/chef came out of the kitchen and asked us how we were enjoying our meal. We had glorious times.

That was then. This is now.

Today we examine the rooms we’re going to rent before reserving them on the hotels’ websites. Too bad we can’t tell about the comfort of the beds. They’re often hard as rocks. Where down pillows were once the norm throughout Europe in even the least expensive hostelries, now thick slabs of hard foam substitute for pillows almost everyplace. All that seems to matter is that the hotel, inn or B&B have pretty pictures on the internet.

On arriving, with few exceptions, one is not an honored guest, or even a person. One is a “confirmation number.”

And yet I keep traveling. As I said in the beginning of this rant, I love to travel. I love being in foreign ports.

While it is harder and harder to find places where one is a person, not a number, we have found a few. And it is to these that we retreat, year after year.

Occasionally, we branch out and try someplace new. Sometimes we find a jewel. More often we are confronted with yet another plastic palace.

And so we tend to return to the Suzanne in Vienna, the Marco Polo on Rhodes, the Keti in Santorini, the Orlof in Hydra, the Marconi in Sirmione, and other small hotels and inns run by real people who treat us like real people.

Now if we could just get to those places without going through an airport.

“Beam me up, Scotty!”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

My books are set in places I know and love and are peopled with characters drawn from my experiences of those places.   The Memory of Roses takes readers to the Greek Island of Corfu, where a young woman finds her future while searching for her father’s past.  In my upcoming book, Delighting in Your Company, the reader is transported to a small island in the Caribbean, with a heroine who finds herself in the unenviable position of falling in love with a ghost.  Due for release next fall, the setting for Sonata is the city of Vancouver, with its vibrant multicultural population and its rich musical life, and my heroine is a musician who finds herself in unexpected danger.

 

Blair McDowell

 

Watch for Blair’s newest book, Delighting in Your Company , to be released by Rebel Ink Press in April 2012.

 

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On Becoming the Bride…

Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

As a little girl I dreamed about weddings. Almost every Sunday when my cousins came over to play I wanted to play wedding so I got the older kids to gang up on my year-older male cousin (I’ll leave his name out to save his reputation) to make him play the groom.  He never wanted to pretend to marry me but it never bothered me he got dragged kicking and screaming to our makeshift altar. As long as I could pull one of my mamma’s white lacy slips or discarded dresses on, drape something lacy over my head, and grab a bouquet of fake flowers, I became THE BRIDE.

After I made my First Communion the way we good little Catholic girls do my first communion veil transformed into a bridal veil for my weekly weddings and if I didn’t get enough bride fantasy, I owned a beautiful bride doll and even bride paper dolls.  I cut out bride pictures from the Sears and JC Penney catalogs and dreamed of the day I’d be a ‘real’ bride.

Since today is Valentine’s Day I figure I need to tell a romantic story so here we go.  At the age of nine I fell head over heels in love with, well, I guess I won’t tell his name either since he works at a big time university with a fancy title and a good job.  He might not want the world or his wife to know about our summer flings.  For the sake of story, we’ll just call him ‘Johnny’.

So I fell hard and fast for Johnny. He lived next door with his many brothers and sisters (yep, another big Catholic family) to my aunt and uncle.  We spent a lot of time there so we joined in the never ending baseball game in Johnny’s back yard.  Before long I ran through Johnny’s house with the other kids (his mother probably never noticed a stray) and we decided to take over the unused apartment over the free standing garage for our ‘club house’.   We talked his mom out of some old furniture, put a couple of pictures on the walls, and hung out there together.  Since we were just nine and ten it stayed clean but imagine what could’ve happened if we’d been just a little older…oh, my! Eventually one of his older brothers realized the sagging old couch and relative privacy offered endless possibilities so he kicked us out and brought his girlfriend over.

But I dreamed of marrying Johnny to an almost obsessive degree.  As teens we played more than a little tackle football but in time my affections turned elsewhere and so did his.  But the sweet fantasies I spun in those long ago summers when the days lasted longer, the heat didn’t seem as hot, and the sunlight sparkled golden remained in my consciousness.

I sat down to write a Valentine’s Day novel for Rebel Ink Press and my memories of Johnny popped up.  He inspired me – how’s that for sweet and romantic – to write A Patient Heart. Now Johnny isn’t Connor Donavan and his life doesn’t parallel Connor’s in any way.

But Johnny is who inspired this opening for my new contemporary Valentine’s Day release:

Excerpt:

That was then….

At the age of nine, she knew she’d marry him someday.  Catherine dreamt of white wedding dresses, frilled and lace-trimmed even though all they did together was play hide-and-go-seek until dark or join in the pick-up baseball games down the block.  She loved Connor Donavan and she knew one day he’d love her the same way.  Boys just didn’t get into love as early.

When she turned fourteen, Connor was sixteen and without much conversation, he asked her out and she accepted.  They dated, casual Friday night dates where he came over and they watched movies, ate pizza and formal ones where they went to school dances, even the prom.  He took her cruising and out to eat, sometimes hiking or on a picnic in the park.  He never had much money and after his seventeenth birthday, he worked part-time at one job, then another.  Catherine still believed she’d become Mrs. Connor Donavan one day.

After her parents made over the old apartment above the garage into a rec room for Catherine, her brother Cade and her sister Candice, she spent a lot of time with Connor there, kissing him on the rump sprung ancient couch and cuddled together listening to music.  It became their place, a private haven where they could be together and sometimes they planned their future, never talking marriage but always one where they weren’t ever apart.

Everything changed, though, one beautiful May afternoon, days before Connor’s high school graduation and just one week after prom.   Catherine sprawled on the couch, waiting for him, reading, but when he came in the look on his face warned her something must be wrong.  Even with his current sour expression, Connor put all the teen idols to shame.  None of the hot dudes on the posters that hung on her bedroom wall or in any of her friends’ rooms could match him, not even  close. “What’s the matter?” she asked.  He’d never scowled so much before, never, or looked so dark.

He stood silent and stared at her for a long time,   “I’m splitting after graduation, the day after,” he blurted out, his voice harsher than ever.  He stood across the room from her, hands balled into fists as if he didn’t trust himself not to touch her.

He couldn’t have shocked her more if he’d said he was traveling to the moon. “What does that mean?”                                                                                                                         “I’m leaving this town and going somewhere new, I don’t know where.

I’m just going to get in the Trans Am and leave.”

Tears burned in her eyes like salt but Catherine tried to hide them.  “What about me?  How long will you be gone?”

Connor stared at her, his amazing brown eyes illuminated as if a candle burned behind them, then looked away.  “I’m going away for good, Catherine.  You don’t need me.  I’ll just hold you back, bring you down.  You’re going to college, you’ll have a career and you don’t need a dirty white boy like me around.”

He referenced one of his favorite vintage songs, an old 1970’s Foreigner hit, Dirty White Boy but she ignored the insult he dealt himself.

“I do need you, Connor.  I love you.”

Color flooded his face with pink but he shook his head.  “I love you too, Cat, but it’s not enough.  You’ll make something of yourself and I’m no good for you.  I guess this is good-bye.”

Here’s the blurb too:

As a little girl Catherine dreamed she’d marry Connor Donavan one day and as teenagers, that dream seemed within reach until Connor ended their relationship, left town and broke her heart. Ten years later, far from the old hometown, Catherine reports for work as a nurse one snowy January evening and learns that her new patient is none other than her old love, Connor. When he recognizes her, all the old feelings stir but a few sparks fly too. As Connor recovers from an accident, Catherine realizes she loves him more than ever and he seems to love her too. But after he leaves the hospital and convalesces at her home, his real life intrudes into their idyll. Connor leaves, Catherine stays until his message sends her speeding to Kansas City, Kansas and Connor’s club….on Valentine’s Day.

It’s February 14 so somewhere between the roses, the chocolates, the lingerie treat yourself to a saucy read about an old love brought out of the past and into the present…A Patient Heart!

 

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Heart-Song… What Resonates Within You?

Winfield Strock III

Some folks ask me, why do you enjoy and pursue writing?  Is it fame, riches?  As I ponder the answer, I relive the reason, and my heart soars.

So many incidental collisions of wood, metal, glass, and stone occur every day.  Every so often the objects manage to strike a perfect note, with the whole of the object reverberating, singing its song.  Their sounds so pure, loud, and pleasing to the ears, I imagine the first musical instruments created from such serendipitous instances.

My favorite books, television, and movies strike an emotional chord within me. I’ve experienced joy from the most unlikely moments simply because the story teller’s message, strikes a perfect note upon my heart.  I laugh or cry, often both, thrilled by penetrating nature of their communication.

Simultaneously, as I seek the next story to evoke that lovely thrill again, I imagine more stories along the same lines, alternative endings or additional content to extend the experience.

Even poorly concocted stories, failing to fuel the same flame, still manage to add to my imagination’s appetite.  What if this sloppily told tale were reworked?  What if the characters were made richer, more believable, or more fantastic?

So, for all those moments where another person’s work set my heart singing, I set out on a similar quest.  As perfectly as they strike a wonderful note within my soul, as joyful as their works make me, the desire to share the experience and lift the spirits of others resounds within me.

Fame and wealth, I suspect fail to satisfy for very long.  The treasure I seek most comes from those precious moments when my stories strike with the power to reverberate throughout the hearts of others, to strike a perfect note.

Reliving the reason for writing, again my imagination plays with the idea.  Perhaps this answers so many other questions.  Artists of all kinds, do they seek to transmit a song from their heart to others?  For that matter, do we all search for a way to share the gift of joy, with the greatest reward nestled within the smiling eyes of others?

Maybe my head’s been buried in the accumulation of things and accolades until now.  Maybe everyone else already knows what I see as a brand new discovery.  But what if I’m wrong?

So my new goal stems from this hypothesis; share the joy found in sowing joy, encourage those who dream of happiness found through evoking happiness in the hearts of others.

 

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Valentine’s Day Sweets

KT Bishop

Valentine’s Day has always been a dangerous holiday for me, and it’s not for the obvious reason of romance.

The delectable desserts are too tempting to pass up during a six-week span. Stores usually put out their Valentine Day sweets between the second week of January until February 21st before officially removing them.

I always bought my girlfriend, wife or significant other a dozen roses and box of chocolates and had my own sweets before we went to dinner and saw a movie.

Avoiding the temptations was easy when my daughter lived with me because I gave her a basket full of sweets. Now that she’s a teenager and lives with her mother, I have no one to keep me in line to control my urges.

Three desserts are a must have for me.

Little Debbie Valentine Day cakes. Once a week, I usually eat two of the pink colored heart-shaped cakes with icing in the middle.

Reese Cup Hearts. I’ve always been a sucker for this company’s sweet combination of peanut butter and chocolate. My daughter, brother and god-child have a similar love of Reese Cup. I always battled them for anything Reese Cup.

Sugar Cookies. The Sugar cookies, with various sprinkles on top, in the shape of a heart remain my favorite as an adult. I’m not a fan of sugar cookies with the pink or white icing on top.

My love for desserts was a main inspiration behind my Valentine’s Day book at Rebel Ink Press: Careless Hearts. I’ve always wanted to do a Valentine’s Day romance and found the right theme.

Here’s an excerpt of Careless Hearts:

B.K.’s office was thick with tension as he went over his plans for Ginger to seduce Sandy.  He ordered her to sit in, but without talking. “I just want you to hear what he sounds like.”

“If you say so,” Ginger said as she sat nervously in the chair and shrugged her shoulders over his tactic. She watched B.K. call Sandy to arrange a meeting on Friday for them to negotiate in his office.

“Hey Sandman, can you drop by my office in a couple of days?” B.K. requested.

“Yeah, but it won’t change things,” Sandy said. “I’m still leaving your team.”

Words of confidence dropped from B.K.’s lips.  “I’m not sure about that.”

“Whatever man,” Sandy said matter of fact. “I’ll give you one shot at me, but it won’t work.”

When Sandy hung up the phone to end his one-on-one chat with B.K., Ginger breathed deep to soak in the tense atmosphere.  “That was uh interesting, but I don’t think I needed to be here.”

“Your purpose in the meeting was served,” B.K. assured her. “Sandy didn’t even know you were in the room and won’t see you coming for miles.”

She spoke in a low tone, as fear settled deep into her soul.  “I just hope this plan of yours works.”

“This is where your acting skills will come in handy.” B.K. said, unleashing a huge smile across his face. “I have no doubt you will get the job done.”

B.K. had a few suggestions for his partner in crime. “Put on your sexiest dress and your best perfume.”

 

 

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