Snow Fever!

I met my OH in 1982, during the worst English winter in two decades. After that interlude, we rarely saw snow. Then we moved right out into the middle of the English countryside. It was a bit of a worry that the last mile from our house to the nearest decent road was like an Escher staircase, but as the media told us cold winters were a thing of the past, we took the risk.

Until a couple of years ago, our gamble paid off. Then in 2010 we were snowed in several times, if only for a couple of days. Last winter, it began snowing just before Christmas, and we were cut off from the main road for nearly two weeks.

The guy delivering our turkey couldn't get within a mile of us, so the bird had to be towed the rest of the way to our house by sledge.  Being snowed in was such a novelty, we didn't succumb to cabin fever. Clearing paths, digging out to the road and feeding the birds filled a lot of our time. Luckily, we only lost the electricity supply for the first twelve hours, so the freezer contents weren't damaged. After the power was restored we had TV and internet access to keep us amused.  

Photo by Andrew Smith

The unpredictability of English weather means it isn't cost-effective for the-powers-that-be to invest in snow-clearing equipment which might only be used once in ten years, so everything grinds to a halt here at the first hint of the white stuff. People living in the country keep  holiday in hand in case they can't get to work, or arrange to work from home (like my OH). In this area we all keep emergency supplies. Some, like us, can get snowed in, while those at the bottom end of the village suffer from flooding. With so much rain, the river has been running ten feet higher than normal - see the submerged trees in the top photo!  Torch and radio batteries, tinned food (pet and human), powdered milk and toiletries need to be on hand here in winter. Prepare for the worst and hope for the best is the motto. 

I always make sure there are a few treats squirrelled away in our emergency box, along with the bare necessities. Bars of chocolate and a new book or two fill any spare time nicely.

What little treats would you hide away with your emergency supplies? There's a signed book from my backlist for a comment picked at random.

Christina Hollis has written both Historical fiction and Modern Romance/Presents for Harlequin Mills and Boon Ltd, as well non-fiction for national magazines and prize-winning short stories. Her current release, Lady Rascal is available for download from  Amazon, iTunes  and many other retailers, while her next book,  Changing Fortunes, will be published in the summer. She loves to hear from readers - you can contact her through her website or her blog.

Katherine Garbera: One More Kiss

My latest release isn't from Harlequin Desire, but from Harlequin Blaze.  Its the first book in a duo I wrote for them.  The second title Sizzle will be out in March.  I'm pretty excited about these books because I was able to combine a couple of things I really enjoy.  The first is cooking--Alysse and Staci (the heroines) own a cupcakery in San Diego, CA called Sweet Dreams. 

Both heroines are channeling their frustrations with the lives into baking and getting their business started.  That is something that I do from time-to-time when life gets too "real".  I retreat into my office and the fictional worlds I create.  I do that because let's face it, I can be a bit of a coward and a brat when life isn't going the way I want it to and in my fictional worlds I'm in control.

But like Alysse and Staci come to realize you can't escape the "real" world forever.  I find that hiding out for a while makes me stronger because I fix problems on the page and then I want to get back to my "real" life and fix my own problems.

In One More Kiss Alysse's problem is an ex-husband who is back in her life and wants a second chance.  Since he's the one who has made her unable to trust any other man, she decides that using him to win back her confidence is a fitting price to pay.  But she doesn't think about the risk to herself as she once fell in love with him and is in very real danger of falling for him again.

What about you?  Do you escape the "real" world sometimes or are you more of a dig-in and fight-it-out until the problem is solved person?

I'm giving away an autographed copy of One More Kiss to three lucky blog participants today.  

Katherine

http://www.katherinegarbera.com/k/Books.html

***Katherine's winner is Kaelee!  Please email totebag@authorsoundrelations.com with your mailing information.  Thanks!***

Kate Douglas: Anthologies

Thanks, Leena, for the invitation to blog. Today I’m talking about anthologies, those collections of stories publishers love to release. Anthologies, for authors, are a mixed blessing. Generally they consist of three or four separate novellas by as many writers, usually within the same genre and sometimes written around a single theme. As often as not, they’re totally different without any connection beyond the fact they’re all historical, or all mysteries, or, as in my case, all paranormal.

The good thing is that the collection within an anthology allows publishers the opportunity to showcase new authors, sometimes to introduce a new series or to reignite interest in an older series. The bad thing is that not all readers want to read those other stories, but once invested in a series, they have to buy the anthology in order to read the one story that belongs to a series they’re following.

And this is where my particular interest in this issue comes in: the long-running Wolf Tales series from Kensington Publishing has twelve novels separated by nine novellas (up to Wolf Tales 10). All but one (Camille’s Dawn in the Wild Nights anthology) appeared as part of the Sexy Beast series of anthologies, and each had “Chanku” in the title so that readers would know they were part of the Wolf Tales saga of sexy shapeshifters, known as Chanku. Unfortunately, my readers often didn’t realize the novellas were an integral part of the story arc, and that’s my fault.

For some reason, I could not pull myself away from the overall story of the Chanku to write something that wasn’t totally connected to the Wolf Tales books both preceding each novella and following it. It was like that from the beginning when Kensington released the very first Wolf Tales—originally published by Changeling Press in an ongoing serial format that had appeared online—without the final chapter. That was released in the first Sexy Beast anthology as Chanku Rising, but was essentially the conclusion to the first five “parts” in the debut edition of Wolf Tales.

Kensington originally contracted for three Wolf Tales and three Chanku novellas—obviously the story didn’t end there—and when it finally came to a conclusion with Wolf Tales 12, there was a grand total of twenty-one stories, counting the novellas, that completed the story arc.

But the anthologies were still collections of stories with various authors and a lot of my readers never realized that, in most cases, the novellas completed or introduced Wolf Tales novels.

Finally after seven years, Kensington is releasing the novellas on their own. Their titles have been slightly changed to keep them in proper order: Wolf Tales 1.5: Chanku Rising, Wolf Tales 2.5: Chanku Dawn (originally Camille’s Dawn), Wolf Tales 3.5: Chanku Fallen, etc. Kensington is releasing three a month through March, and then in April, my new Chanku series, Spirit Wild, debuts with Dark Wolf.

This new series is all about the children of the original Chanku shapeshifters all grown up, though if you haven’t read a single Wolf Tales or Sexy Beast story, you will have no problem getting into this new set of books. I can’t WAIT to see how readers respond to Lily Cheval, to Alex Aragat, and Annie McClintock as adults. And there’s a new character who’s going to take Lily on the ride of her life—Sebastian Xenakis, a powerful wizard, quite possibly a murderer, and maybe the one who will finally steal Lily’s heart.

The second book—Dark Moon—is also complete, though I’m not certain of the exact release date. That one follows Igmutaka, the spirit guide, and Mik and Tala’s daughter, Mikaela Star. Sunny Daye returns—she was introduced in Wolf Tales 12—and you’ll catch up on all the Chanku as their grown children interact with the first generation. Times have changed, though, and if you read WT 12, you’ll know that the Chanku now live in a world fully aware of their existence.

There are first chapters of all the Chanku stories on my website at www.katedouglas.com/eroticromance . If you’re an adult, click to enter the site and you’ll see the new Chanku ebook covers. Click on a cover and it will take you to first chapter. A long excerpt of Dark Wolf is also posted—again, click on the cover and that will take you to it.

What is your opinion of anthologies? I have to admit to mixed feelings. I discovered some of my favorite authors reading anthologies—Meljean Brook and Nalini Singh come to mind. Sometimes, though, I’m disappointed by the collections and find that the only story I actually read and enjoy is the one I went searching for by an author I already follow. I’d love to hear your opinion, and if you leave a comment, you’ll be entered to win a copy of Wolf Tales 12, or if you’d prefer, a copy of Sexy Beast VI, VII or VIII.

Kate Douglas

kate@katedouglas.com

www.katedouglas.com

www.facebook.com/katedouglas.authorpage

@wolftales

***Kate's winner is Sammie!  Please email totebag@authorsoundrelations.com with your mailing information.  Thanks!***

Sometimes, it is good to weep by Michelle Styles

The first time I wept at a film or book stands out in my memory. But it was not Charlotte's Web, although I lvoed the story. I was sad of course when Charlotte died but the first book where I truly cried was Where the Red Fern Grows. We had to read it in 6th grade and I skipped ahead, finishing it before the others one lunch time. Cue me with reddened nose and streaming eyes.
My friends were very concerned when I wouldn't tell them what was wrong as I didn't want to spoil it for them. A few days later, one came and checked if that had been the case as she wept buckets. (As an aside my children all wept in theirturn when they read it. My youngest has always sworn that he wants two dogs just like Big Dan and Little Ann)
From then on, I was a confirmed weeper and I have only become worse as time goes by. It is a joke in the family that no matter what I should have a tissue near by.
I used to say to Donna Alward when we were critique partners that I knew things were good if I cried at least once. I knew if I couldn't make myself cry, how could I expect anyone else to weep.
So with my history of weeping at Hallmark commercials, news items and as well as books and films, you would have thought that I'd always remember tissues. Uh, no.
On Saturday, my daughter took me to see Les Miserables as it had just opened in the UK and it was her CHristmas present to me. We both have loved it since she was in it the first year of high school. I can still remember her drama teacher who was a personal friend coming up and apologising as he had suddenly realised that he'd made my daughter into a Lady of the Night! I confirmed it was fine. I have written books, weeping to the soundtrack. But on Saturday, I decided that I had better look smart and put on mascara. I then forgot my handkerchief.
The first tear rolled down my cheek when Jean Valjean met the bishop and was forgiven. They start in earnest when Fantine lost everything.  I was pleased that I didn't sob out loud. I just watched with tears flowing. After awhile I stopped wiping them away as they just flowed. the lights came on and I realised that I probably looked like a panda.
The man sitting in the row behind asked if I had enjoyed the film. Yes, I replied, it was wonderful but I forgot my tissues. The lady he was with handed me a packet with a laugh.
I walked out into the cold January light and reflected how good and therapeutic it was to cry and how the world looks reborn when you do. I can not remember the last time a film affected me that much. yes, I cry but not that much!
So when was the last time you had a good cry over a book, movie or even an ad? And what did other people think of Les Mis? I understand Lincoln is excellent but somehow I don't think it will be as emotionally powerful for me. How do the two compare?

Michelle Styles writes warm, witty and intimate historical romance for Harlequin Historical. Her next book An Ideal Husband?(please note the cover!) will be published in April 2013 and is a light hearted Victorian romp with a few moment which brought a tear to Michelle's eye. You can learn more about Michelle on her website www.michellestyles.co.uk

Maggie Shayne's Witch Books

I want to thank you so much for having me as your guest today, and I want to start out with a gift.  If you subscribe to my newsletter, Maggie’s Magick, before the end of the day tomorrow, Tuesday 1/15, you will get two free Maggie Shayne novels in any electronic format you want. Here’s the link to subscribe: http://mad.ly/signups/65868/join

And now I’d like to talk to you about my Witch books. I have a lot of them. My first Witch was the Immortal High Witch series, which included ETERNITY, INFINITY, DESTINY, and a novella, IMMORTALITY.  They were released from Berkley. Recently, the rights to the first two reverted to me, and now I’m pleased to tell you that not only are they going up in Ebook formats for the first time, but that ETERNITY is the book you’ll be getting free in this week’s issue of my newsletter.

When I first sat down to begin writing ETERNITY, something very strange happened. I felt as if someone had slammed me in the chest with a baseball bat, and then my heart started racing out of control. I had to go to an ER, where they flatlined and restarted my heart. From then on, every time I sat down to work on the book, the same thing happened, though usually it corrected itself without an ER trip. It stopped once I got past the very very dramatic opening scenes. Later, before the book was finished or even released, I was at a writer’s conference where a psychic was giving readings. I scheduled one, and the minute I walked into the room, the psychic said, “Why am I getting the word ETERNITY shouted at me?” I told her it was the book I was working on. She said it was a very important story, both to me and to its readers. And that it would be huge.

There were a lot of other mystical things surrounding the writing of this book, readers who had to skip those opening scenes, people who insisted they were not fictional, but real events and that they had been there with me. One man, who became one of my very best lifelong friends, swore he’d been on the gallows beside me. I’ve never had an experience like this before in the well over 50 books and 20+ novellas I’ve written. This one was special.

My latest Witch series, The Portal Series, is a very different sort of story. This one goes back to Ancient Babylon, and concerns three sisters who were slaves in the king’s harem, and also practicing magic in secret. The king’s favorite fell in love with his most trusted soldier, and when they were found out, all three women were executed for their crimes, and the soldier cursed to a fate worse than death by a jealous high priest.

This series includes LEGACY OF THE WITCH and e-only prequel, MARK OF THE WITCH, DAUGHTER OF THE SPELLCASTER and BLOOD OF THE SORCERESS, which releases next week on 1/22.

The video for book 1, MARK OF THE WITCH, includes an original song, Witches on the Wind, the lyrics of which were written by that same man who became my best lifelong friend after reading ETERNITY, David O. Norris. Dan Hall wrote the music and recorded the song, and I love it. I’ve loved it for years. (You can buy it for a buck on iTunes or Amazon.) We’re hoping to have another original song for the book 3 video, but we’re obviously running a little bit behind schedule with that.

The thing about any of my Witch books that sets them apart, is the authenticity. I am a card carrying Wiccan High Priestess, and elder, co-founder of a Wiccan Tradition, and a retired coven leader. I know my Witchcraft. So what you get isn’t made up nonsense, it’s the real deal.

Thank you so much for stopping by to read my post. I hope you’ll check out my sites, both ThePortalBooks.com and MaggieShayne.com or visit me on Facebook www.facebook.com/MaggieShayneAuthor or @maggieshayne on Twitter.

Enjoy! And Blessed Be.

Happy New Year...or rather, mid-January!

I know that we're almost two weeks into the new year, but I thought I'd talk about my resolution here anyway.  Well, not really a resolution.  Once upon a time, I had those, like most other people.  And like most people, I'd broken them before I reached this part of January.  I tried to purposefully pick resolutions I knew I could keep.  One year, I decided I would do a shot of tequila.  I like margaritas, and had never done a shot.  So, with Mr. Burhenn's help (he taught me how to do it one handed--hold the shotglass, lemon wedge between pointer finger and thumb, salt on the knuckle of your thumb.  Yep, one fluid motion.) I wrapped that up before January was over.  Yep, I was a winner!

Still, those easy resolutions didn't seem to really improve me.  I mean, yeah, I can handle a shot (although I'd rather sip a wine or beer, personally), but I don't know that it makes me a better person.

So, a few years back, I decided rather than any kind of resolution, I'd try for a word. One word to build my year around.

I've found this really works for me.  I've used words like Optimism, Moment, Awareness, Change...

As the new year approached, I gave some thought to what I wanted to improve on this year.  And I came to a decision.

Drum roll please...

I went with the word STOP.  

I'm going to use the word as a  reminder to myself to stop and find the glee every day.  To stop and take a breath.  To stop and look for those moments of wonder.  

There's always so much going on here.  I try and balance my large family's needs and my writing.  I try to be there for people who need me.  As a pseudo-science geek, I can't help but think that an object in motion tends to stay in motion...unless some outside force acts on it.  Well, I want to be my outside force.  I want to stop the motion and simply appreciate...well, everything!

I know that we're almost two weeks into the new year, but finding new ways to improve yourself doesn't come with some time limit.  So, maybe you made a resolution and this will serve as a reminder to keep going with it.  But if you didn't, maybe you'll find your own word.  Some touchstone for the year.

This is going to be a crazy busy year for me.  I have four books coming out and two more short stories. I promised Lee that I'd come here and blog once a month, so you'll be hearing more about those.  But this first blog of the year, I didn't want to talk about my books...I wanted to simply wish you a great year, and share my word and the reasoning behind it.

 I hope you find your own resolution or word of the year.  And although it's mid-January, I hope you have a great year!  I hope you find your own moments to stop and appreciate what's going on in your life...that you stop and find glee...that you stop and take a breath...that you stop and find the wonder!  

Holly

www.HollyJacobs.com

EVERYTHING BUT A DOG, Montlake Romance 12/12
YOU ARE INVITED..., SuperRomance 4/13
APRIL SHOWERS, SuperRomance 5/13
A WALK DOWN THE AISLE, SuperRomance 6/13
A VALLEY RIDGE CHRISTMAS, SuperRomance 11/13 

Sydney Landon: A New Beginning…Or is it?

How many New Year’s resolutions have you made?  From the time that you were old enough to actually start making wishes, you have probably made some pretty impressive declarations for the New Year.  As a woman, ours usually revolve around love and life.  Or let’s be more specific, I want to finally get rid of my big butt and find a man!  Um yeah, does that sound familiar?  Come on ladies, don’t leave me hanging here, you know what I’m talking about.   Now for those years that chocolate won the battle and a good man was about as hard to find as snow in July, there was always one thing that took me away for a while…a good book!

The beauty of reading is not to be taken lightly.  A good book can take you thousands of miles away in just a matter of minutes and it’s much less expensive than a plane ticket.  The Danvers series which consists of Weekends Required, Not Planning on You and Fall For Me, are all based in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.  I have received so many emails from readers telling me that they either lived or vacationed there and how reading my books brought back so many happy memories for them.  My husband proposed to me there, so I always remember that when I’m describing an area of the city for one of my books. 

Romance novels in particular have the ability to stay with you long after the last word is read.  Months after the revolution of Fifty Shades of Grey, you are probably still discussing it with your girlfriends and secretly shopping online for your own pair of handcuffs.  Your husband may be wondering why he keeps getting a new gray tie for every occasion.  Even though more often than not, the lead characters in a book are beautiful, they are still damaged in some way.  There is some obstacle that must be overcome to find their one true love. 

Will Mr. Right walk out of the pages of the book you are reading and take you away from all of this?  Unfortunately not, but maybe…just maybe, the next time you see a diamond in the rough; you’ll recognize the prince charming underneath.  

Sydney Landon
www.sydneylandon.com

A Little Bit of Luxury

by Anna Campbell

Happy New Year, everyone! I hope 2013 brings you much health and happiness and lots of good books to read.

With Christmas just off the horizon, I was thinking about some of the lovely presents my friends and family gave me over the Festive Season. One of my favorite gifts - both from friends and from myself to me - is a lovely cake of scented soap.

Check out the pretty angel soap to the left of this text. Isn't that just the loveliest seasonal wrapping?

It just provides that little touch of luxury to use a sweetly scented block of soap in the shower or the bath. Definitely a lift to the spirits after a hard day or before you start a hard day!

I always use nice soap when people give it to me. My mother, on the other hand, used to store it in the cupboard for 'good'. Which means she never used and enjoyed it. So sad.

After she passed away, I found all these lovely gift soaps tucked away in various drawers in her house, a lot of going back years. So I ended up getting the benefit of the soap, rather than her. Mum had a cake of Elizabeth Arden Blue Grass - goodness knows how old it was - but the scent when I opened it was just beautiful. So evocative of long ago somehow.

Never fear, if you give me soap, it won't languish in a cupboard. It will make its appearance in my bathroom and I'll really appreciate it.

Hmm, that sounds like a hint to my friends and family, doesn't it? Oh, well. Snicker!

I have a friend who stores her scented soap in her underwear drawer so everything picks up the lovely scent. Must try that!

I also love the beautiful wrappings you get on gift soaps at the moment. Check out these two Italian soaps from the Christmas haul. Aren't they just scrumptious? You (almost) want to eat them. And they smell like heaven. I wish this blog had smell-o-vision! Instead, you'll just have to take my word for it.

What do you do when you want a touch of something special to leaven the everyday? Do you like scented soaps?  Any favorites?

Being in the moment : : Anne McAllister

Back when they were brand-new, I got a Kindle Fire.  I’d put off having any sort of e-reader for quite a while, but earlier that year my husband gifted me with a Kindle on my birthday. I became very fond of it.  So fond, in fact, that I jumped at getting a Kindle Fire because I used the Kindle a lot and I wanted to be able to do even more with it.

The Fire was a great success. I hear that the newer versions are, too, but I’m happy with the one I have, so I’m not thinking of going for ‘bigger and better.’  It’s given me all I hoped for – with the exception of being able to buy books from amazon.co.uk which apparently is still a no-no.  I don’t understand the thinking of publishers who limit such sales but permit sales of actual books across the pond.  Perhaps someone will explain so it makes sense.

However . . . one of the things my Fire has done is allowed me to discover books I might not have discovered previously.  I think, ‘Ah, that’s sounds good,’ and I purchase it – and hopefully I begin to read.

Or sometimes I don’t.

Sometimes I’m in the middle of something else and the book lingers waiting . . .and waiting.

That happened sometime ago to a book called The Practicing Mind by Thomas Sterner.  I can’t even remember now how I discovered it. But I’m a fan of ‘practicing’ and it called to me. So I bought it – and promptly went on with whatever I was doing.

Then, two days ago, I was scrolling back through my bookshelves and I rediscovered The Practicing Mind. This time I opened it and began to read.

I don’t know why I didn’t read it when I first got it, but I think I am grateful that I waited until now.  Now is the right time for me to be reading it.  It’s the right time to recognize that where I am in the current book is the right place for me to be. I shouldn’t be worrying about the end.  The ending is not the most important thing (except perhaps to editors). What’s important is doing it right, focusing on the process of writing, of discovering the story in Lukas and Holly’s lives.

It’s a salient reminder – particularly in this time of New Year’s Resolutions that goals are important, but that ‘getting there’ is more what life is all about. 

The same goes not just for writing, but for everything we do, I think.  I love do work on family history – and I have goals. I want to discover the identity of my great-grandfather Johnson’s father.  But the process of seeking is just as important as finding. Learning HOW to seek is just as valuable. 

I like baking – and goodness knows, I enjoy eating what I bake. But the process of mixing ingredients, of stirring and rolling and shaping and putting the result into the oven is just as enjoyable (and far less fattening).

I was reminded over Christmas when we visited two of our sons and their families that the joy of parenting is in the doing. There is no ‘result’ at which time we can say, “All done.” It’s an on-going process.  Watching my sons as fathers, discovering that too was a joyful experience.

Sometimes we spend our lives thinking, “If only . . .” as in “If only I could finish this, I’d be happy,” or “if only I could get that, I’d be fulfilled.”  But really, it isn’t the attaining – it’s the process that is really important, that’s really valuable.

Sterner reminded me of this again in his book.  I’m reminding you. 

I hope we can all look back on 2013 as a year in which we stayed in the moment a lot of the time, when we didn’t regret the past or worry about the future, but focused on doing what was important, on living in the now.

Torn between two lovers — Kandy Shepherd

My teen daughter and I are catching up on episodes of the first series of the ABC hit evening soap, Revenge. Daughter was studying and I was working when the first season aired Down Under where we live and we only caught a few episodes.

We’re loving Revenge, and nothing more than the love triangle between the beautiful young protagonist, Emily Thorne, and the two men in love with her—bar owner Jack Porter, and heir to a vast fortune, Daniel Grayson. Both men are gorgeous in very different ways and Emily is not only torn between them, but also tempted from her hell-bent path of revenge against Daniel’s family.

Emily has to choose between Daniel with the millions...

Or Jack with the dog

“They're both so hot, I just couldn’t choose between them,” my daughter sighs quite often as we watch. I couldn’t either! And isn’t that the enduring appeal of this type of story? (Don’t give me any spoilers, please, as I know things don’t work out quite as these first episodes indicate!)

The words of the old Mary MacGregor pop song, Torn Between Two Lovers are humming along in my head—the one where she sings that loving two men at the same time is “breaking all the rules”. I’m not talking infidelity here, but having to make a choice. And the choice is what makes it so interesting for viewers or readers—sometimes we root for one or other of the guys and that really ups the tension! Who will end up with who? Who will be left broken hearted? Was it the right decision?

In the early Stephanie Plum novels by Janet Evanovich, didn’t it keep us anxious for the next book to see whether Stephanie would chose sexy cop Joe Morelli or the dark and dangerous Ranger? Think of the tragic love triangle in the movie Legends of the Fall between the heroine Susannah and two brothers Tristan and Alfred (Tristan is played by a young Brad Pitt that made the choice for me!) Or when Bridget Jones has characters played by Colin Firth and Hugh Grant fighting over her affections?

There’s Diane Keaton having to choose between Jack Nicholson and Keanu Reeves in Something’s Gotta Give (no choice for me, I couldn’t understand why she chose Jack Nicholson!) In The Notebook, Allie has to choose between Lon and Noah (pick Noah, pick Noah!) And then of course there’s the beautiful young girl loved by both a vampire and a werewolf in Twilight.

I’m having fun working on a romance where my heroine thinks she’s in love with one man when another comes onto the scene. Being a romance, it has to be very clear who is the right guy pretty soon, and the complications go from there. Of course if I wrote erotic romance, I could give her a ménage, where she gets her happily-ever-after ending with both of them. That’s the ultimate solution to making a choice!

I couldn't resist ending with this!

What do you think? I’d love to hear! Do you enjoy a love triangle? Any favorite books or movies that feature a love triangle? Do you think she made the right choice? Have you ever had to make such a choice?

Please leave a comment to be in the draw to win a Love is a Four-Legged Word T-shirt. Be sure to leave your email address with your comment if you want to be in the draw.

Kandy Shepherd writes fun, feel-good fiction. Her books include Something About Joe, Love is a Four-Legged Word, Home Is Where the Bark Is and The Castaway Bride—where the heroine runs away from her wedding to one man and is castaway on a tropical island with another. (There’s really not much of a choice to make as the hero is so scrumptious!)

Visit Kandy at her website

www.kandyshepherd.com

Eating the Elephant

It's that time of year when we clear the decks, resolve to do better and get on the self-improvement kick. Or not.

I stopped making New Year resolutions a long time ago. About the time when I realised that they didn't last beyond Twelfth Night.

This year, though -  just after New Year, when I'd scarfed down the last of the chocs, I knew there was one thing I had to do.  Lose some weight. Really. My knees were begging me.

There should be a warning written on every publishing contract. Sign this and, unless you are an exercise bunny with a will of iron when it comes to biscuits, this contract will add 20lb to your weight before you know what happened.

In the new house I have to walk up two flights of stairs to the office and about half way up the second flight last week, my knees said "enough". Loudly. Actually, just lately they've been complaining when I put my feet to the floor in the morning and pain is the one thing that will make me pass on cake.

Since I have absolutely no faith that the scales will have survived the move with any degree of accuracy, I decided not to worry about poundage. I'd let my chatty knees do the counting. They'll keep me in line. The jacket that won't quite button around the middle and the black velvet trousers I've never worn will tell me when I'm making progress.

I'm not doing anything fancy. I've cut out bread, upped the level of protein to carbs (I'm eating a lot of fish) and while I couldn't say I leapt out of bed this morning after just three days the knees took the move without complaint. The stairs are already easier and I've switched from Radio 4 (talk radio) to Radio 2 (pop music radio) and I'm jogging around the kitchen while I work to those oldies that were the soundtrack of my youth.

I've lost maybe two pounds (the first few days it always falls off) but the difference is already noticeable to me if no one else.

Exercise is the next step. I keep threatening to dig out the swimsuit and get to the pool. It's attached to the high school so they get first dibs on times and I have to figure out when I can fit it in.

I've made a start. That's the main thing. It feels a bit daunting at the moment, but losing weight is like writing a book. You know how it goes. How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.

Happy New Year!

Gin Phillips: Of Mice and Women

Lately—for somewhat unfortunate reasons—I’ve been thinking back to the research I did for my novel, Come in and Cover Me, which is set during an archaeological dig in New Mexico. I discovered a big chunk of this love story/ghost story/mystery during the two weeks I spent on an archaeological dig in the middle of a remote canyon, surrounded by stunning scenery, untouched ruins, and real archaeologists.

I loved the whole set-up. It was the perfect place to relish leaving civilization behind, and I knew exactly what should be involved. Before I got on the plane, I practiced putting up my own tent in my den. (Quite successfully.) On site, I started drinking my coffee black. (Not successfully. Blech.) I got acquainted with coyotes and wild turkeys and mouthfuls of dirt and skinned knees and weird acid-spraying scorpions called vinegaroons. Overall, I left feeling quite competent and outdoorsy.

Now, in full disclosure, there were no cockroaches in New Mexico, at least not the cat-sized kind we have in Alabama. My only defense against those monsters is to throw shoes at them from a distance.

This feeling of competence when faced with nature’s arsenal has resurfaced lately because of one word: mice. Because I may be a wuss when it comes to roaches, but I am very good with mice. This came about, I believe, because of one terrible night in New York City during my mid-20s when, as I was napping on the couch, a mouse landed on my head about 2 a.m. one night. Panic ensued. I was trapped in the apartment with the mouse for a full night until the hardware stores (i.e., mousetrap stores) opened in the morning. Before the whole mouse-on-the-head thing, I’d believed that mice were afraid of people, but since that was obviously untrue, I couldn’t sleep with it in the apartment. I set up all sorts of McGuyver-ish traps, like masking tape left face-up around my bed so I would hear its little feet stick if it came too close. I also took the lids off a few shoeboxes, filled said shoeboxes with crumpled paper and cheese, and cut out little cardboard ramps that the mouse could climb in order to dive into the box. (My thought was that I would hear the mouse hit the crumpled paper, then I would slam the lid on the box.)

I caught no mice, but I felt really good about my survival skills.

Anyway, when my stepdaughter spotted a mouse in the kitchen a few days ago, it all came back to me. Survival skills. I eventually caught the little guy (so cute, really) in a glue trap, which I had set, plus I picked it up and disposed of said mouse. I singlehandedly conquered that mouse. (My husband handles roaches—I handle mice. It’s a solid arrangement.) It was strangely satisfying. It is as close as I get, I think, to mastering the wild, to hunting food or building shelter or scaling mountains and digging up mysteries from the dirt. It is a brief spark of woman against wild.

And, really, I’m okay with brief sparks.

Gin Phillips

http://www.ginphillips.com

If It's January, it must be . . . Easter? Kate Walker

Happy New Year!   I hope 2013 will be a lovely, happy and joyful  year for you.

Today is the day that I always think of as the ‘official’ end of the Christmas holiday season. January 6^th – that’s the date that I was told as a child that the 3 Kings arrived at the stable to see the baby Jesus and his mother. It was the day my mother put the figures of those three kings i9n the family crib – the one I have now as I inherited it when she died.  I’ve always loved holding it, putting out the figures. That seems to put me in touch with my mother and connects us over the years, even when I  wrap the crib figures up in bubble wrap and put them away.

But I remember that when we did have the crib when I  was a child, it was  just the 6^th January – the day the Christmas decorations came down, the tree was taken out into the garden and the cards were all packed away to be recycled.   There was a longish time – or so it seemed – before the next holiday.

It’s not the same now. I don’t know about you but here in the shops it’s already beginning to look as if Easter is just around the corner.  Easter eggs, cards, Easter decorations  . . . hang on! I’ve only just put the Christmas decorations away!   I know there’s the need to prepare in advance – but this far in advance?

The trouble is that when you’re a writer, if you’re not careful, things can get a bit like this all the time. You write a book, work on revisions, get the book accepted  and scheduled, and then you’re looking ahead to the date the next book comes out.  I have June 2013 in my diary and I’m so looking forward to seeing A Throne For The Taking in the shops. At the same time, I’m planning, developing and working on the book after that, with a deadline in mind and the hope of another new title in the schedule.  I’m also planning the course I’m teaching  in Fishguard in Wales in February  - and that makes me think of the way that Writers’ Holiday is coming up in  July . . .

But this year, I’m determined not to let me days run  away with me as they have done in the past.  If I’m not careful I ended up being so busy that I’m planning, organising, thinking, of everything do far ahead that if I’m not careful I end up living in the future and never quite get to really appreciate the now. One of the things I lost out on last year was my reading.  We had  all those renovations and the building work done on the house and I ended up dashing here there and everywhere finding the right tiles, the flooring, the  kitchen cabinets. . .

It was worth it in the end  - but I did miss out on my reading. And reading is wital to a writer. You have to ‘fill the well’ of your imagination,  read stories so that you can remember how great if feels to be caught up in that magical  world of the imagination, to fall in love with  - or end up hating – the characters who may only be words on a page but become so real to you that you  really care  what happens to them.
So, although I’m not one for resolutions much,  there are two important decisions in this set of thoughts –ones that affect how I want to be in 2013.  I want to live in the present. To be in the here and now, and not always to be looking ahead to what’s around the corner.  Easter will be here soon enough – for now, I’m enjoying the space between New Year and the next holiday.

And as part of that,  I’m enjoying reading. Not just having a giant TBR pile, or a bundle of titles on my Kindle, waiting to be read – I’m going to read my way through them. I’ve been doing that today – curled up in a chair, with a cat  and one of the books I was given for Christmas.

(For some reason everyone seems to have given me ghost stories this time – but that’s fine by me as the evening gathers round the house and the sky darkens. It’s a real change from writing and reading romance – and it’s sparking my imagination in a way I’m really enjoying.)

So that’s how  I’ve been thinking as I head into the start of this new year. I Know that, inevitably, I’ll end up having to plan for the next book, the next date on the schedule, but right now I’m enjoying living in the now -  and making that now include the fascinating books I have to read. I’m going back to my chair now – where the cat and the book are waiting.   Charlie the Maine Coon has a lot to teach me on this – he only ever lives in the here and now  unless he decides he wants an early dinner!

What about you?
You can find out what I'm up to  and all my latest news by visiting my web site or my blog

Jennifer Ashley - Goals for A Happy New Year (with giveaway!)

One of my friends says he doesn't make New Year’s resolutions, he makes goals for the year. I think that’s a good attitude, one I’m adopting.

Resolutions sound like constant determination, as though you always have to be on, focused on that resolution 24 / 7. Maybe that’s why so many people lose their resolve after about a month. It’s tough to be resolved all the time.

Goals, on the other hand, sound more forgiving. You work on a goal as much as you can, but sometimes, you have to take a break from it. But as long as you keep the goal in sight, you’ll come back to it. Also you’re allowed to work on a goal little by little, in bite-sized pieces, to get there or as close to there as possible by the end of the year.

My goals this year are to:

1. Lose weight, at least 50 pounds. I can break that down into 4 pounds a month (4.167 if you want to be specific), or a pound a week. A goal of a pound a week sounds much more accomplishable than saying: “I resolve to lose 50 pounds this year.”

2. Get my schedule under control. I’ll be writing a lot this year, and I want to make sure I take as much time as needed on the stories but turn them in on time as well.

I’m doing this by making a master schedule and calculating the minimum amount of writing I need to do per day to get the books done on time. Sometimes I’m on fire and write like crazy, but on the days I’m not on fire, my goal is to write a small chunk anyway, so the story keeps moving forward, no matter what.

3. Spend more time enjoying life (directly related to number 3). Writers can get frantically busy on deadlines and forget to come up for air. That can burn us out (which happened to me in a big way this fall).

I’ll go at this goal not only by slowing down and working steadily instead of frantically, but also by making myself stop working at a certain time each day (clock out). I’ll use the rest of the day to spend with family and friends, to cook, shop, exercise—participate in my life instead of having my nose in the computer while life goes on around me.

I know that I won’t be able to work at these goals all the time. I’ll slip and gain a few pounds; be on so tight a deadline that I keep on working far into the night.

But if I think of the above as goals, I’ll come back to them. If I think of them as resolutions, the minute I lose my resolve, they’re gone.

I did start my New Year by having a book come out on December 31—The Seduction of Elliot McBride, the fifth in the Mackenzies series. This is a Scottish historical, set in 1884, with a tortured hero in a tumbledown castle. I love Elliot, and thoroughly enjoyed writing his story.

Leave a comment with one of your goals for 2013 and enter to win a copy of this new book!

Take care,

Jennifer Ashley

http://www.jennifersromances.com

***The winner is Barbara E.!  Please send your mailing information to totebag@authorsoundrelations.com!***

Robin Kaye - The Top Ten List of Love

One of the things I struggle with as a writer is showing the moment when my hero and heroine realize they have fallen into the huge abyss that is love.

Still, there are signs a person has fallen hard. When it comes to love, my heroes tend to be faster out of the blocks than my heroines. Maybe it’s because I have a tendency to write challenging women with issues and no real need for a man. They are strong, independent, and some say clueless when it comes to love. Or maybe it’s because deep down inside I like the idea of a man chasing a woman, wanting her so badly, he’s willing to do just about anything to win her heart. Sigh… Yeah, that’s probably it.

So here is a Top Ten list for heroines:

You know you’re in love when…

10. When you and your man are together and you automatically walk to the passenger’s side of the car instead of the driver’s side—even when it’s your car. Let’s face it, guys like to drive and a real woman has no need to prove to her significant other that she’s more than capable of navigating the mean streets of Brooklyn or Boise.

9. You go to the store and buy his favorite beer and snacks without thinking twice—although you might wonder how he drinks beer so thick you can stand a spoon in it and spend time pondering his deep and abiding love of beef jerky.

8. You stop sleeping in the middle of the bed unless you’re trying to get closer to him.

7. He comes over to your place unexpectedly, you realize you don’t have a stitch of make-up on, or worse yet, haven’t taken yesterday’s makeup off, and you’re wearing an I’m-too-bloated-for-regular-clothes scary outfit consisting of paint-splattered sweatpants he left at your place and a t-shirt you stole because it smelled like him—and you don’t run screaming into the bedroom to shower and change.

6. You sit through a movie you sooo don’t want to watch knowing the next movie night he’ll sit through a three-hanky drama and not complain about the mascara stains on his new shirt.

5. You notice a lot of his hair on the drain in the shower and you warn him he’s going bald so that ten years down the road, it won’t come as a shock.

4. You find yourself watching the Discovery Channel’s special about the Building of the Hoover Dam for the sixth time without complaining or mentioning that watching it makes sleeping pills unnecessary.

3. You find yourself sharing your food at restaurants. Well except for the chocolate desserts—and even though he’s allergic, he orders one knowing you can’t decide between Death by Chocolate Cake and the Chocolate Covered Cannolli.

2. You look around your empty house or apartment and wonder why it feels weird. You try to figure out what’s missing only to realize the only thing that’s missing is him.

Number one: You know you’re in love when…

You don’t kill him in his sleep after you realize, too late, that he’s left the seat up. Again.

Yup, that’s when you know you know you’ve fallen in love—right after you’ve fallen in the toilet. Ain’t love grand?

So tell me, when did you realize you were in love? I’m giving away a copy of my new book, BACK TO YOU: BAD BOYS OF RED HOOK to two lucky commenters. I can’t wait to hear your stories!

Here’s an excerpt of BACK TO YOU:

CHAPTER ONE   

     “I think you killed him.”

     Ten-year-old Nicoletta said it with such immutable calmness, Breanna Collins wondered if this wasn’t the first time a strange man had entered Nicki’s room at three in the morning and been taken down by a woman wielding a cast-iron frying pan.

     Bree’s heart traded punches with her sternum, winding her more than a ten-mile run uphill. She sure as hell hoped Nicki’s assessment of the intruder was right. Better a dead burglar than a live one.

     The dim glow of a streetlight outlined the shadowy figure lying facedown on the carpeted floor between Bree and Nicki. Dropping the skillet, Bree skirted the body before grabbing Nicki’s arm, pulling her off the bed, and shoving her toward the door.

     The man groaned, and, like something out of a horror flick, a vise-like grip closed around Bree’s ankle. She landed hard, kicking and screaming. She reached for the frying pan, only to be flipped like a tortilla on a hot griddle, and covered with one extra-large serving of man.

     “Get off me!”

     He held her hands on either side of her head as his breath washed her ear. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

     “Yeah? Well, I’m going to hurt you.”

     “You already have.”

     Light flooded the room, causing temporary blindness. When Bree’s vision cleared and she saw he wan’t an intruder, she wanted to crawl under the pink princess canopy bed and hide. Instead, she dove right into the turbulent, ocean blue eyes of an enraged Storm Decker—the past occupant of Nicki’s room. Storm Decker—a man Bree had known since before she started wearing sexy underwear. Storm Decker—a man who epitomized the reason women bought the lacy, uncomfortable stuff in the first place.

     “Breezy, a frying pan? That was the best you could do?”

     Bree hated that nickname—maybe because Storm was the only one who dared to use it. It didn’t help matters that the sound of it rolling off his tongue had always been enough to make her breath catch. She struggled, trying to slide from beneath him, but succeeded only in pressing her body against his. His heat scorched Bree through her Mr. Bubble boxers and matching tank top. She couldn’t believe Storm would be a witness to the remnants of insanity caused by a wild shopping spree at the Walmart in Secaucus. Women built like her shouldn’t wear tank tops—not even to bed.

     Storm didn’t move a muscle, keeping her pinned beneath him. He didn’t behave like a gentleman should and get off her, help her up, and make sure she was all right—not that she was surprised. Storm Decker was a bad boy, and he had the rap sheet to prove it.

     He had the nerve to shoot her his guaranteed-good-time grin, the one that made any woman in the vicinity want to remove the sexy underwear she’d purchased with him in mind. “If I were out to hurt you, you’d be in a real tight spot right about now.”

     “No, she wouldn’t.”

     Storm’s attention snapped to Nicki standing in the doorway, holding the phone in one hand and the frying pan in the other.

     “You’d be out cold again, and the cops would be on their way. Now, do you want to get off her, or am I gonna have to use this?” She waved the frying pan and did her best to look menacing.

     Nicki was too cute to manage that, but Bree gave her points for trying.

     Storm turned back to Bree, their noses almost touching. “Who’s the kid?”

     “Storm, this is Nicki. Nicki, meet Storm Decker, Pete’s son.” She tried not to think about Storm’s proximity and concentrated on the pained and confused look on his face. He wasn’t the only one confused. “What are you doing here?”

     Storm rolled off her. She thought she’d be able to breathe better without two hundred pounds of man crushing her, but she was wrong. No, the breathlessness was still there. Crap. She was twenty-eight and a far cry from that seventeen-year-old caught in Storm Decker’s wake.

     “Logan couldn’t get away from the vineyard—something about harvest season. He got ahold of me and told me Pop was sick. Since Logan was unable to make it, I was elected. I’ve been traveling for”—Storm glanced at his watch—“twenty-three hours, and this is the welcome I get? No wonder I haven’t been home in years—”

     “Eleven years.” Bree sat and hugged her knees to her chest.

     “So you did miss me.”

     “Yeah, like a rash.”

     “I might not have seen you, but I’ve been home a few times. The last time was five or six years ago. You were probably away at school.”

     Bree rose and brushed herself off, just to have something to do with her hands. “You must have left quite an impression. Funny, no one mentioned it to me.” She took the phone and the pan from Nicki. “It’s late, sweetie. Go back to bed.”

     “Aw, Bree.”

     Dropping a kiss on Nicki’s forehead, Bree cut her off. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

     Storm rose to his feet. He’d looked a lot smaller when he was out cold. He picked up his duffel bag with a grunt, one hand held against his head over what must have been one hell of a lump.

     Bree waited for Nicki to climb into bed and curl around a big teddy bear before pulling up the light cotton blanket and brushing a hand over her hair. “I’ll be in the next room if you need me.”

     “Okay.”

     Bree followed Storm out, doused the light, and closed the door behind her. Without looking at him, she headed straight to the kitchen, grabbed a bag of frozen peas, and tossed them at him. “Are you okay? Do I need to take you to the emergency room to have your head examined?”

     He sat on a bar stool and winced when he placed the bag against his head. “I’m fine.”

     She looked him over—his pupils were equally dialated. “Any nausea?”

     “Why, Breezy, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you cared.” The side of his mouth quirked up.

     “I don’t. I just don’t want to be charged with murder. Now answer the question.”

     “No, I’m fine.” His phone rang, sounding like a foghorn. Pulling it off his hip, he checked the caller. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”

     “Fine.” Bree started out of the kitchen, but he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and held on. The tingle shot straight to her breasts. She didn’t dare look down.

     “Storm Decker.” He listened for a moment, and a smile spread across his face as her cheeks ignited. His black hair was cut short, much shorter than she remembered. It only served to accentuate the chiseled features of his face, while his strong, square jaw covered with dark stubble added to his dangerous look. Blue eyes watched her and changed color with his mood. When he’d been on top of her, it had been like looking into an angry sea, and now his eyes were the color of a summer sky—deep blue and full of promise. When he smiled, his perfect teeth gleamed white against his tan skin. His voice was as soothing and buttery as a bottle of Macallan’s fifty-five-year-old single malt scotch. At $17,500 a bottle, she’d bet a case of it that the person on the other end of the line was female.

     “Hi, Sandy.”

     Bingo. Bree twisted her wrist and pulled away, breaking his grip.

     “How are things at home? Any problems today?” Storm’s gaze lingered on Bree’s chest before moving to his pricey watch. She wondered if they sold cheap knockoffs on the street corners in Auckland. She doubted it. It looked more expensive than the run-of-the-mill Rolex. They probably charged extra for the dive watch to withstand the pressure of the ocean’s depths or the corner office. Then again, maybe his watch had been a prize for winning the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race. So okay, she’d Googled him and found a picture of Storm and his team holding the Rolex Cup. It was just her luck the photo hadn’t done him justice.

     “Tell Laurel I’ll be back in plenty of time to go to the yacht club dinner. This should only take a week, two tops.”

     Bree did a quick boob check while she wiped the already-clean kitchen counter and tried to look as if she weren’t listening to every word of his conversation. Unfortunately, the girls were standing at attention. Still, it didn’t keep her from wanting to smack him upside the head with the damn frying pan again on general principle. A one- or two-week visit was no help. She had called Logan because she needed someone responsible to stay for the next couple of months at least. Storm’s plan seemed to be to blow in, stay just long enough to assuage his guilty conscience, then leave for the next eleven years or until Pete’s funeral, whichever came first. It was disappointing, but not unexpected. He probably had Peter Pan tattooed on his incredible ass.

     Storm snapped his phone shut. “I guess I should thank you for the great homecoming. Now, do you want to tell me just what the hell is going on and who that kid is in my old bedroom?”

     “Who are you to walk in here and start demanding answers? You ignored Pete for years, and now . . .” Storm was . . . God, he was here. Her energy level bottomed out, and she leaned against the counter for support. “Why couldn’t Logan have come? And if he had to send someone, why couldn’t he have called Slater?” After all, Slater was safe. “Slater’s in Seattle. And last I checked, Seattle is a hell of a lot closer to Brooklyn than New Zealand, if you’re still in New Zealand.” With the Storm Chaser, one never knew.

     “I get that you’re not happy I’m here. Deal with it, Breezy, because like it or not, I’m all you’ve got.”

     “Lucky me. When it comes to helping someone other than yourself, you were always as useless as an inflatable dartboard.”

     Storm’s head snapped back, and his chin followed, as if Oscar De La Hoya had hit him with a right cross. “People change.”

     She’d won this round. She’d pinned him against the ropes with the two-ton weight of her gaze, willing him to explain his disappearance years ago, but his eyes told no tales. “Pete collapsed at the Crow’s Nest. Heart attack. They did bypass surgery, and he’s not handling it well.” She threw the sponge into the sink and wiped her hands on a towel. “I have a hard enough time managing the restaurant and Nicki single-handedly. I can’t take care of Pete too. I need help. I’m surprised Logan called you, but I’m even more surprised you came.”

     “Why wouldn’t I have come? Just because I moved away doesn’t mean I’m not close to Pop.”

     “Oh yeah, I heard you friended him on Facebook. I’m sure that means so much to him.” Bree took a deep breath and released it slowly. “He’s at Methodist Hospital, and with any luck, he’ll be out in a few days. He needs to heal, and I don’t know how much he’ll be able to do once he’s back on his feet.”

     Storm stood and in two steps was around the breakfast bar. “Breezy? Is Nicki yours?”

     “Mine?” She stepped back. “Why would you think that?”

     “Why wouldn’t I?”

     Bree ran her hand through her hair and tucked it behind her ear. “No. Nicki is Pete’s.”

     “Pop’s? Since when?”

     “It’s been a few months now.” If Pete hadn’t told him about Nicki, it wasn’t her place to do it. “Look, I’m tired. I’m going back to bed. Help yourself to whatever you want. There’s beer and leftover pizza in the fridge. The guest towels are in the linen closet. I’m in Logan’s old room. You can stay in Pete’s room tonight—the sheets are clean. Good night, Storm.” She brushed by him on her way out of the small kitchen.

     “Good night, Breezy.”

     Bree felt his eyes on her the whole way back to her room. She closed the door and thought about locking it—not sure whether it would be to keep him out or keep her in. Climbing into bed, she fought the searing memory of the last time she’d seen Storm Decker. He’d been running out that same door and leaving her behind.

     Storm’s gaze locked on Breezy as she moved away. Reddish brown hair framed her face and gave her that hot, tussled, just-rolled-out-of-bed look women spent a fortune to duplicate—Breezy did it without trying. But then shehad just rolled out of bed. He couldn’t help but smile at the way her big green eyes sparkled with humor or anger whenever she hit her target. She had a hell of an aim, and not just with frying pans.

     Her face had softened with time but still showed off those high cheekbones, short, upturned nose, and wide, full mouth. Her face wasn’t the only thing that had changed. At seventeen, she’d been a skinny kid, but she’d filled out in all the right places. Her tank top showed off an abundance of cleavage, and those breasts were one hundred percent natural. He could tell. The rest of her body did anything but disappoint, and it put her in the realm of fantasy material. Damn, leave it to Breezy to be the only woman alive who could make those stupid cartoon pajamas look better than anything he’d seen as a teenager in the Victoria’s Secret catalogue—the poor man’s Playboy.

     Storm fingered the goose egg on the back of his head. Shit, he was going to kill Logan when he got his hands on him. Logan failed to mention Breezy worked for Pop. But then, Storm had never asked about her either. The last thing he needed was a reminder of Breezy—hell, he’d dreamed about her every night for at least a year after almost having sex with her.

     Storm pulled the phone off his belt and called Logan. He didn’t give a shit what time it was. While the phone rang in his ear, he looked around the apartment he’d grown up in. It hadn’t changed much except for some new carpet, paint, a big-screen TV, and a leather couch. Pop’s favorite recliner still sat in the corner. Even though smoking in New York had been outlawed, since the apartment was above the Crow’s Nest, it still held the faint scent of stale tobacco and beer. It smelled like home—something he hadn’t realized he missed until he’d walked through the door. That was . . . right before Breezy beaned him with the frying pan.

     “Do you know what time it is?” Logan didn’t sound happy. Good, neither was Storm, and it was three hours earlier in California. Hell, Storm didn’t even want to know what time zone his body thought it was in.

     “It’s twelve forty-five your time. I guess the better question would be, do I care? I’m home, and you have a lot of explaining to do.”

     “What do you need explained exactly? Pop’s in the hospital, and one of us needs to help him until he’s back on his feet. I’m in the middle of a harvest, and Slater is doing an internship for school. You were elected. Besides, it got you out of the winter blues down under, so what the hell are you complaining about?”

     Storm raked his fingers through his hair, momentarily forgetting about the goose egg until his hand traveled over it. He sucked in air through his teeth, the ones he was currently grinding. “Logan, you never told Bree I was coming. The first thing she did when I got here was hit me upside the head with a frying pan. She thought someone had broken into the apartment.” The deep chuckle on the other end of the phone irritated him.

     “What did you want me to tell her? She asked for help, I sent help.”

     “You also failed to tell me about the kid.” Storm didn’t know what to do with a kid, especially a girl. Women, sure. Girls, no way.

     “What’s this about a kid?”

     “You didn’t know either?”

     “What the hell are you talking about? What did Pop do now, take in another stray?”

     “This one is a little kid. Her name is Nicki.”

     “Did you say her?”

     “Yeah. Her, as in ‘Congratulations, it’s a girl.’”

     “How old is she?”

     “How the hell do I know? She’s not walking around with her date of birth stamped on her forehead.”

     “Well, is she two? School age?”

     “Definitely school age.” He tried to think back that far. He didn’t see many kids, so he didn’t have much to compare her to. “She’s at that awkward age when nothing quite fits together. Her legs are too long and skinny; her teeth are too big.” She was old enough to have the same look in her eyes he’d seen every time he’d looked in the mirror as a kid. Nicki was on a first-name basis with pain and fear and the dirty underbelly of society. Still, that knowledge came to some really young. “I don’t know, somewhere between eight and twelve.”

     “Why didn’t Pop tell me?”

     “How the hell do I know?” Storm kicked the wall under the breakfast bar, something that never failed to get him a smack on the back of the head from Pop when they were kids. “I guess I shouldn’t feel so bad since he didn’t tell you either. After all, I’m the black sheep.” Pop had never forgiven him for leaving without a word, even though he’d planned to join the merchant marines. He never explained why he’d shipped out two months earlier than expected—explanations were always messy.

     “When did the kid show up?” Logan asked.

     “Bree said it’s been a couple months. Why the hell has it been months since you’ve talked to Pop?”

     “Look who’s talking. I’ve been busy at the vineyard.”

     “And Slater?”

     “School and work. Pop came out last winter, and the three of us got together in Vancouver.”

     Storm hadn’t been invited. Not that he would have flown to the West Coast, but shit, he used to be one of them. An invite would have been nice.

     “It must have been before he got her. Pop never said anything about a girl. He never said anything about a heart problem when he was with us either.”

     “A quadruple bypass is a little more than a problem.”

     “I was shocked when Bree called and told me he had a heart attack.”

     “Yeah, I know. Looks like he’s closer to Bree and Nicki than to any of us.”

     “What are you waiting for? The pity platoon to come rescue you?”

     Storm groaned. Even to his ears that sounded whiney. After all, Pop had rescued him, Logan, and Slater from foster care and loved them as if they were his own. Then they’d grown up, and Storm had moved on. Hell, he’d left Red Hook, but not because of Pop. He left because he had no choice—he couldn’t disappoint Pop, and he couldn’t stay. There was no future for him in Red Hook, only a past he wasn’t proud of.

     “Are you going to see him tomorrow?” Logan asked.

     “No, I came all this way to hang out at the bar. Of course I’m going to see him. I’ll be at the hospital first thing.”

     “Good, get some sleep. And Storm, you might consider buying a helmet.”

     “Don’t laugh. I might do more than just consider it. The woman has one hell of an arm.”

     “I’m glad you’re home.”

     “Yeah, well, I’m here. But I need to get back in two weeks.”

     “Two weeks?”

     “I told you, this is the busiest time of the year for me. I just landed a commission for a Class 40 racing yacht. I’m slammed with tight deadlines. As much as I love the old man, I can’t stay in dry dock forever.”

     “Okay, I guess we just have to hope Pop’s better. I’m in the middle of harvest, and it’s not something I can take care of from Red Hook.”

     Storm ended the call and stared at Breezy’s door, wishing he had X-ray vision. Even after all these years, he hadn’t needed the lights to know who lay beneath him. One breath and Bree’s scent—an intoxicating blend of citrus and spice—tossed him back eleven years, landing him in the exact place he’d been before. On top of her. Between her legs. Hard.

     “Fuck.”

     He wasn’t sure what had him reeling more—the conk on the head or seeing Bree.

To read the rest of Chapter One, check out Robin’s website.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/RobinKayeWrites                                                       

Twitter: https://twitter.com/RobinKayeWrites

***Robin's winner is Sunnymay!  Please email totebag@authorsoundrelations.com with your mailing information.  Thanks!***