Gingerbread Hearts ~ Chapter Three by Christine DePetrillo

Running down a hotel hallway in spike-heeled boots was second in dumbass moves only to breaking into a rock star’s room and stealing his sweatshirt. What the hell was she doing?

“Hold the elevator!” Kat yelled as she rounded the corner.

The doors sealed shut.

Jacob skidded to a halt beside her. “Kat!”

Crap. Seeing Jacob Morey again was a shock. Seeing how fantastic his chest looked with muscles in all the right places was a ticket to a show she wasn’t ready for. A show she might never be ready for ever again.

But he did look good enough to eat, and she could describe herself as… hungry. His black hair hung to his stubble-covered jaw while deep blue eyes pinned her in place. A snake tattoo started on his left pectoral with a detailed head and open jaws flashing fangs at her. The inked body and tail stretched over his left shoulder and coiled around his left bicep. Kat had never thought much about tattoos before, but this one made her insides flutter. She wanted to wrap herself around him in a similar fashion.

No! No, I don’t. She had to go. 

With the elevator traveling down without her and the door to the stairs blocked behind Jacob, she was trapped. How was she getting out of this one?

I’m going to kill Fiona.

Jacob reached out a hand and she jumped back, her heart racing.

“Whoa.” He held out both hands. “I’m not going to hurt you, Kat.” He pointed to the hoodie she clenched to her chest. “Just thought I’d get less naked out here in the middle of the hallway.”

Her arm shot out without her telling it to do so, and his hoodie dangled from her hand. Guess she wouldn’t be getting Fiona that Jake Pearson item after all. Damn.

She tried not to be disappointed as Jacob covered all those muscles and that tattoo with the bright red sweatshirt. He didn’t zip it up all the way, and she wondered if he were playing the role of Hot Santa’s Elf for her on purpose or was that just a side benefit?

“I’m sorry I busted into your room and stole your sweatshirt,” she blurted, hoping an apology would get him to move and allow her to leave. Because she wanted to leave. Didn’t she?

“Technically, you didn’t steal it,” he said. “I gave it to you.”

“Right.” She tapped her foot, trying—maybe only half-heartedly now—to formulate a getaway plan. If she stood in front of him as he looked all tall and sexy much longer, she might toss the rules she’d put in place since The Incident, tug him back into his room, and unwrap him like a Christmas present.

Kat never thought she’d see Jacob Morey again. With all the time they’d spent together when they were in school, she’d always thought he’d ask her out. She’d thought he’d liked her. He was always around, making jokes with her, busting her up, but never in a mean way. More like flirty teasing. She wasn’t sure what kept him from taking the next step, but when they’d graduated, she went to college and he went to California.

Then she’d met Marc, French exchange student, who was into art and philosophy and had seemed so mature compared to all the silly college boys littering campus. Turns out she was the one who was silly—silly to believe Marc’s sweet nothings, whispered in French, wouldn’t mean he’d take what he wanted.

Even if she wasn’t ready to give it.

Thank goodness Fiona had been her roommate at the time. Fiona had been studying with some other girls in the common room in their dorm suite, had heard Kat scream, and dashed into their bedroom, ready to kick somebody’s nuts in. She’d literally jumped on top of Marc’s back and pounded him with her fists until he got off Kat and shook Fiona off.

That hadn’t stopped Fiona though. She’d marched up to Marc and punched him right in the nose. Blood had exploded from Marc’s face. Swearing in French and glaring at both of them, he’d left the room. Fiona had hugged Kat, asking if she was okay.

Because of Fiona, she was okay. Physically anyway. Emotionally, Kat had locked everything down since then, too afraid to trust anything that had a Y-chromosome.

But Jacob Morey had never done anything bad to her. In fact, all through high school, he’d been this… this presence. Someone she could count on for a friendly smile, a helping hand, a kind word. Someone who had always been a gentleman.

She remembered a holiday concert they’d played in their hometown. After entertaining parents with Christmas tune after Christmas tune, the student musicians had gathered around the snack table which was piled high with cookies. Kat only had eyes for one kind of cookie though.

Gingerbread.

The ones she and her grandmother had made for the concert. There wasn’t anything better in the world than Nonnie’s gingerbread cookies. Nonnie always made them in the shape of a heart because “Christmas is about love, Kit-Kat.”

When Kat had reached out a hand to pick up one of the heart-shaped gingerbread cookies, she’d bumped into another hand.

Jacob’s.

“Sorry,” they’d both said.

Jacob had picked up two hearts from the tray and held one out to her. “These are the best cookies here.”

“My grandma and I made them.” She’d taken the cookie he’d offered, pride swelling inside her that Jacob liked what she’d baked.

“Of course.” He’d smiled, and she’d become a little fascinated with his mouth, hoping for her first kiss.

Instead, they’d both stuffed the gingerbread hearts into their mouths and chewed silently as they stood next to each other.

“You know what I need,” Jacob said to her now.

She blinked out of the concert memory and looked at him. “To call hotel security on me?”

He laughed, a raspy chuckle that made her skin tingle. “No. I need gingerbread cookies.”

The grin on his lips told her he hadn’t forgotten that concert night either. Was it possible he regretted not kissing her then?

“I have a friend who works in the hotel’s restaurant,” she said. “We made gingerbread cookies together last night. I think I can get us some.”

“Heart-shaped?” he asked. “Because they taste better in a heart shape.” He held his hand out to her, slowly as if being careful not to spook her. Jacob may have been rock star Jake Pearson, but he was still the guy she’d known—the guy she’d trusted—when they were younger. 

“Heart-shaped gingerbread cookies coming up.” Kat slipped her hand into his and a wall crumbled inside her when he intertwined his fingers with hers.

A loud ding sounded as the elevator doors slid open. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas wafted out into the hallway.

Maybe I will. Kat tugged Jacob into the elevator then turned to face him. “Can I still give Fiona that sweatshirt?”

He brought their joined hands up and pressed his lips against her knuckles. “You’ll have to get it off me first.”

Happy Holidays, my friends and Roses! May you always believe in Christmas miracles. Don't forget to join me at Small Town Hearts on FB for more holiday spirit. 

Tune in tomorrow for Alison Henderson's story and continue the holiday fun. 

Toodles,

Chris

www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com

Gingerbread Hearts ~ Chapter Two by Christine DePetrillo

Was it too much to ask for a little privacy? Jake Pearson hadn’t expected to be awakened by a bold intruder, nor did he plan on running for the room door to stop her from escaping. Something about the woman was familiar though. He’d only gotten the briefest of glances at her in the dim room, but her scent—something gingerbreadish—threw him back to a past Christmas. The last time he’d smelled that fragrance…

“Kat?”

Enough light spilled in from the window that Jake was able to see the woman’s shoulders stiffen. She was facing the wall beside the door, pressed up against it as if she expected him to attack her.

She peeked over her shoulder and those hazel eyes were definitely Katrina Harris’s.

“Jacob?” she whispered as she slowly turned around to face him. “Jacob Morey?”

Why did it delight him that she remembered his name? His real name. The name his agent had made him change once he’d signed a record deal. Apparently Jake Pearson had a more badass rocker sound to it than Jacob Morey. At the time, he’d been willing to completely reinvent himself if it meant getting his music out into the world. Now, with Kat Harris standing before him, however, he longed to be Jacob Morey again. The Jacob Morey who had spent his elementary and middle school years teasing Kat Harris about everything because he hadn’t been sure how else to get her attention. The Jacob Morey who had played the piano in the high school band where he stole glances at Kat playing the violin. The Jacob Morey who had always heard the most beautiful music in his head whenever he looked at the most beautiful girl in the world.

The Jacob Morey who had forever been too insecure to actually ask Kat out on a date.

“What are you doing here?” Kat asked, an adorable crinkle forming right between her blonde brows. God, she looked amazing with all that golden hair piled on one shoulder and cascading down to just above her breasts—which also looked amazing beneath a green dress that told him she’d only gotten hotter over the past four years. Long, toned legs supported all that sexiness, and Jake had to remind himself to look, not touch.

“I believe the question is what are you doing here?” Jacob gestured to the room around them. “I paid for this room.”

“But I thought this was Jake Pearson’s room.” Her gaze lowered for a moment, and Jacob would have given anything to learn what she thought about the view of his naked chest. He’d been sleeping in only a pair of sweatpants when she’d busted into his room. Kat was no doubt wondering how the hell a scrawny teenager like he’d been could have grown into someone Tunes Magazine had called “as rock hard as his hard rock.” He wrote his best music when he worked out so he worked out often. Turns out all that lifting built muscles where he never even realized he could have them.

Kat appeared to be inventorying those muscles right now as she stared at him, a faint pink tingeing her cheeks.

“This is Jake Pearson’s room, Kat.” He pressed his hands to his bare chest. “I’m Jake Pearson.”

“I… I don’t understand.” She looked him over again then seemed to catch herself and snapped her gaze up to meet his.

“Why don’t you answer my question first?” He put his hands on his hips. “Why did you sneak into my room?”

“I didn’t sneak into your room.” She tilted her chin up and he remembered all the times she’d done that exact thing while telling him he was the most annoying boy she’d ever met.

Of course she’d never told him to take a hike either. She’d had plenty of opportunities to stop talking to him when they’d been in school together, but she hadn’t. She’d tolerated him. Maybe even liked his company, but he’d never been sure enough to take that next step and ask her to go out with him on an actual date. Then they’d gone their separate ways after high school, lost contact, and he’d been too afraid to just call her.

Coward. But he wasn’t that guy anymore. He was Jake Pearson now. World famous rock star. He didn’t need to ask women out on dates. They threw themselves at him.

And not one of them had ever meant as much to him as Kat had. This was his chance to right one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

Christmas is a time of miracles.

“Okay,” he said. “If you didn’t sneak in here, what are you doing here?”

Kat sifted out a breath, her shoulders slumping a bit as she no doubt realized he wasn’t letting her leave until she gave him some answers. “My friend Fiona is a huge fan of Jake Pearson… of you, I guess… and because I work here at this hotel, she wanted me to get something of yours for her. You weren’t supposed to be in here. I’d heard you’d gone to breakfast.”

The red staining her cheeks deepened, and Jacob wondered if that blush covered the flesh he couldn’t see. Now that was a question he really wanted to answer.

“I was tired after my last concert so I canceled my breakfast engagement.” He angled his head at her. “You’re willing to break into someone’s hotel room and steal for this friend? A big risk, no?”

Kat looked down to her feet—her sexy feet in a pair of spike-heeled black boots. The kind of boots dudes had dreams about.

“I owe Fiona.”

“Must have been a pretty big favor she did for you.”

Kat’s eyes filled with tears as she whispered. “The biggest.”

“Oh, hey. I didn’t mean to upset you, Kat.” Shit, that was the last thing he wanted to do. He’d been granted this unexpected Christmas gift, and he was blowing it. Big time.

She shook her head, sniffed, and cleared her throat. “You’re not upsetting me. I’m okay.” She hugged herself. “Why is it so damn cold in here?”

“I worked out earlier and got overheated. Forgot I turned the air conditioner on.”

 “Do you have a sweatshirt or something I could borrow?”

“Sure.” Figuring she’d stay if she were warmer, he rustled around in the closet and handed her a red hoodie. “Here you go.”

"Thanks." Kat grabbed it, ripped open the room door, and was gone before Jake could blink.

Tune in tomorrow for Chapter Three! In the meantime, head on over to Small Town Hearts on Facebook and enjoy holiday fun with me. 

Happy Holidays!

Chris

www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com 

Believe In Miracles!! by Margo Hoornstra

Do you believe in miracles? I sure do. To illustrate, I’ll need to take you back a bit in my Roses of Prose posts. What follows is one I put up here in May of 2016.

***

My birthday was earlier this month. All in all, it was a pretty good day. The kids called with plans for a week end party, my husband bought me a sentimental card and took me out to a very nice dinner. Then he dropped a bombshell I wasn’t expecting. He wanted to buy me flowers, specifically a plant. I didn’t know what to say. Not because I was necessarily touched by his thoughtfulness, although there is that. The fact is, I was truly rendered speechless in an – oh, no, not again sort of way.

You see, I’m horrible with plants. Saying I have a brown or even black thumb doesn’t begin to do justice to the malady that afflicts me. Plants in my care have no chance of survival. Zero. None. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

They may as well shrivel up and die before they even arrive at my house because, try as I might, that will ultimately be their fate. After so many years my husband knows this and yet he insisted. What else could I do but graciously accept? So off we went to find a suitable sacrifice…uh…specimen.

After some offers I absolutely had to refuse – temperamental African Violets, (it makes me shudder to even thing about raising those); fragile Boston Ferns, (the kind my mother used to grow en masse by the way) nope. Finally we settled on a Calla Lily. I had heard of them. This one was purple, my favorite color and seemed to be reasonably healthy (for now, anyway). ‘Indirect sunlight, moderately moist soil and 60 to 70 degree temperatures’ to quote the full color instruction stick. The one which, by the way, also sported the picture of an entire, beautiful bouquet.

Easy enough, don’t you think? For normal plant growers, I suppose. Of which I am not one. 

What’s indirect sunlight exactly? Either the sun’s shining down or it isn’t. Sun beams don’t shine from the side, do they? I mean, the sun would have to leave its position in the sky to do that, which isn’t going to happen. Sunlight, direct or not, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of middle ground on the issue. Sounds to me a little like being somewhat pregnant. Either you are or you aren’t. Again no middle ground.

The only thing for sure I could surmise was that direct sunlight was probably not good.

But back to the fate of the innocent little plant of mine. The center of our living room, aka away from any and all windows seemed to be as indirect, sunlight wise, as one could get. This is where I set my treasure. Then I made sure the soil was moist, even added some extra water because we were going out of town for a few days. Just to be sure said soil really did remain ‘moderately moist’ while we were gone. When we returned, the leaves were getting a little pale, yellow even. Not only that, water sat, yes sat, about a half an inch deep, in the pan underneath the pot. Could this be the beginning of the inevitable end? Apparently my idea of moderately moist and their idea of moderately moist were two completely different moderately moists. We, that tiny instruction stick and I, had something else we couldn’t agree on.

In addition to that whole direct and indirect sunlight thing.

**heavy sigh**

At any rate, I’m trying to reform; I’m letting the poor thing dry out a little and moved it from the center of the living room to a shelf near a window in my office. A little closer to a window, but far enough away, I hope, from any and all direct sunbeams.

Fingers crossed these new arrangements will prove to be beneficial. Please send positive thoughts our way and wish both of us luck. Here’s hoping I can at least grow one measly little plant.

***

That was then, this is now.

As it turned out, the poor little Calla Lily didn’t survive. I watched with appropriate angst as its poor little leaves shriveled to nothing. Heartbroken, I carried its pot with dirt intact, out to the garage with the intention to use it someday, maybe, for some other form of foliage unlucky enough to fall into my hands.

Fast forward a year, and then some. Taking a deep breath, I decided to plant some double petunias for the summer. Nothing fancy, I’d just put a few in an assortment of unused flower pots I had on hand from previous endeavors. As I foraged in the garage the other day for appropriate receptacles, I noticed a grey plastic pot sitting on top of the refrigerator out there behind a cardboard box.

Lifting it down, I discovered the miracle I mentioned up top. That Calla Lily I’d taken for dead was ALIVE! Just look at it now!

Talk about thriving on benign neglect. I have no clue how this happened, but I’ll take it. No flowers yet, either. Those will no doubt take some time.

Right now, I'm simply basking in this bonafide evidence of a miracle. And enjoying every minute.

My days to blog here are the 11th and 23rd. For more about me and the stories I write, please visit my WEBSITE

Out Pops a Miracle by Brenda Whiteside

After five years of marriage, many years ago, we decided to have a baby. I was pregnant the next month. Five years after I had my son, I wanted baby number two. That child never happened. After many doctor appointments and trying some pretty funny things to conceive, I found out I had a malfunctioning fallopian tube. Those little tentacles at the end of the tube looked like they had a severe case of arthritis. When did that happen and why, the doctor couldn't say. I personally believe having one child was probably a miracle. I learned a great deal about the female reproductive system in the three years of trying for baby number two. The main thing I learned is it's a very complicated system - so complicated not even the doctors are entirely sure of how it works. So every baby is a miracle, especially mine.

Two months ago, my daughter-in-law went to the hospital in labor after a carefree, healthy pregnancy. She

nearly died having my first grandchild. Years ago, both child and mother might not have lived. Miracles are easier to come by with a talented surgeon on your side.

My paternal grandmother was four feet nine inches tall. Her doctor told her she shouldn't have children. She was just too small. Granny gave birth to seven children in her own bed at home. Granny had seven miracles.

I am in awe of the miracle of life and birth. The joining of two to become one. The multiplication of cells that divide and specialize, grow in a liquid environment then burst into a world of air. Each one unique yet a combination of all that came before her. Truly a miracle!

Visit Brenda at www.brendawhiteside.com.

Or on FaceBook: www.facebook.com/BrendaWhitesideAuthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/brendawhitesid2

She blogs on the 9^th and 24^th of every month at http://rosesofprose.blogspot.com

She blogs about prairie life and writing at http://brendawhiteside.blogspot.com/

I believe in miracles by Barbara Edwards

Miracles are funny things. Many people don’t believe in them. They ascribe a sensible explanation for every event, but that isn’t me.

I see miracles every day. The birds sing at sunrise and it’s a miracle. The bulbs I planted in my garden last fall came up in a splash of Spring color. My neighbor has a beautiful baby girl. And my husband survived a severe heart attack last summer.

I think it’s a miracle that I have the talent to write a book. It fits my definition of a gift from God and I’m really thankful.

I finished a short Christmas story and have a contract even though I never wrote a sweet romance before this one.

Today I submitted Ancient Curse, the third book in my Rhodes End series, to my editor.  After a long year of weird health issues, I think that’s a definite miracle.

With a smile, I’m posting an excerpt from Ancient Awakening, the first in the series. Enjoy.

Ancient Awakening by Barbara Edwards

Eastern Europe, 1000 AD

The terrified servant fumbled her armload of logs as she eased the laboratory’s paneled door open. The pounding of her pulse shredded his concentration. Hunger stabbed through his gut. His fingers flattened the quill’s nib against the parchment and ink smeared the last entry like blood. Saliva pooled in his mouth while she built up the fire, then scuttled to safety.

His low growl muffled the soft snick of the latch. Once again, he had resisted the impulse to rend, to carelessly feed. A frustrated sigh heaved his chest. The only way to keep good servants was to reward them richly and let them live.  That lesson had been difficult to learn.

He held the parchment to the fading light streaking through a slit in the thick stone. The pale glow outlined his almost fleshless fingers before a freshly penned phrase caught his attention. He threw the broken quill into the fire and selected another. The correction had to be made, and he bent over his desk to take care of it.

Satisfied with the change, he straightened and stared into the dancing red and orange flames until his stiff muscles eased. He had to eat, but he resented interruptions. His latest research into a cure had been so promising; the details so fascinating, only the relentless blood hunger forced him to stop.

Although he had searched the world, he had never found a remedy for the curse he had inflicted  upon himself. He eased erect and rubbed at his blurred eyes, before slowly stacking the parchment sheets, aligning the unused quills, and corking the ink well with shaky hands. He was weak, but the priests would have his nourishment ready. They always did.

A snapping log showered glowing embers onto the slate hearth. He pondered the coals for a moment before he swept them aside with his bare hand. His changed flesh didn’t burn. Along with his soul, his body had surrendered its ability to feel pain, to age, or scar.

Legend gave him many names, but the wide halls of his mountain retreat no longer echoed with countless worshipers. He could have ruled the world had his ambition not died with the passage of time. The endless whispers were from the cold winds and the few praying priests. He didn’t care that he couldn’t remember his real name or birthplace.

For an eon, he’d regretted the loss of softer emotions. Love had been the first feeling to die, along with the woman who had insisted he would never harm her. He couldn’t recall her features, just the merry tinkle of her laughter and the bright smile she had greeted him with every morning. He licked his lips. She’d tasted sweet.

Fierce need flared in his gut and he sniffed the air. Outside his chamber, a single acolyte in long, brown robes waited to escort him. His mouth curved with a mirthless smile. The silent servants had ignited the flickering wall torches. Shadows jumped and shivered in the drafty halls like nervous virgins.

Hope you enjoy my writing.

Please visit my website at www.barbaraedwards.net