Getting Stuck with #Valentine’s Day by Christine DePetrillo

I always get stuck posting on Valentine’s Day and I don’t like Valentine’s Day. I’ve decided this year to treat you all to an excerpt of characters on their way to being in love instead of a rant on why I think Valentine’s Day is dumb. You’re welcome.

Enjoy.

From More Than Pancakes, Book One in The Maple Leaf Series, #FREE in ebook everywhere…

Rick pulled up a chair to the boxes of books Hope and Sage had left in the store by the display shelves. Poe took up residence on the floor beside him and sniffed all the corners of the closest box. He began loading the books on the shelves, turning some of the covers outward so customers could get a good look at them. He didn’t spend a lot of time in the store when customers were in there. He preferred a more behind the scenes involvement in the business and that was part of what had made him not so successful in New York. He liked dealing with the equipment, the actual trees, the land as well as the financial side. Running the business from the city had only allowed him to crunch the numbers and collect the profits. Maybe some folks liked that hands-off approach, but not Rick. He wanted to smell the melting winter, the blooming spring, and the boiling sap.

As he continued stacking books, Poe padded to the door and woofed once at it.

“No customers today, Poe. Not yet.” 

She barked again at the door and as she sat by it, a soft knock echoed in the store. Rick put down the books he had in his lap and limped to the nearest window. A Jeep he didn’t recognize was in front of the store along with footprints in the remaining patch of snow. The knock came again, but he couldn’t see who was at the door. He contemplated not answering as he often did when the phone rang, but figured it wouldn’t waste much time to explain the store wasn’t open yet.

He ambled to the door, resting his hand on the tables as he passed by without the cane. As he neared the door, another knock sounded.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “I’m coming.” He cursed his slowness and hoped he’d be rid of the cast soon. Not likely, judging by the ache, but a man could hope.

He reached the door and pulled it open. What was standing on the other side of it made him forget his own name.

A woman. Not much shorter than him with reddish-blond hair that brushed her shoulders and curled about a face meant for makeup commercials. Her skin had a wonderful glow he’d never seen on any native Vermonter, and her eyes were blue-green jewels. Slim, black jeans spanned down two long, shapely legs and disappeared into brown, knee-high leather boots that belonged on a runway not on his partly muddy, partly snowy doorstep. The rust-colored dress coat that hung to her thighs also seemed out of place in this setting, but not out of place on her. The woman was perfection in that coat, and the cream-colored scarf she had looped around her neck fascinated Rick.

Poe barked and the woman jumped. “Is that a coyote?” Her voice, soft yet assertive, matched her delicate mouth and intense eyes, but she looked as if she were ready to run for her vehicle.

“Yeah, but she won’t hurt you. She’s been raised to think she’s a big hamster.” What is this woman doing here? Then the pieces fell into place in his mind. “You’re one of Hope or Sage’s friends, right?” That had to be it, but he didn’t remember ever seeing this one. He didn’t think he could forget her if he had seen her. God, she was tall.

“No,” she said. “I don’t know Hope or Sage. I’m looking for whoever signed this.” She pulled an envelope out of her shoulder bag and rifled through it. While keeping a wary eye on Poe, she handed Rick one of the documents, and he scanned it quickly.

“You’re looking for me then.” Why did that make something in his stomach tighten?

“You’re the neighbor? You knew Gail Hinsdale?” A section of snow slid off the roof and landed in a pile about a foot away from the woman. She stumbled back and threw a glance all around her, almost dropping the envelope in the process.

“Come in,” Rick said, though he hadn’t remembered consciously deciding to invite her inside.

“Thank you.” She knocked the mud and snow off her boots and squeezed past him into the store. She smelled like grapefruit and coconut and sunshine. Like something far too exotic to be here with him. “Could you…” She motioned to Poe and made a shooing gesture with her gloved hand.

“Sure. C’mon, Poe.” Rick smacked his thigh and shuffled toward the kitchen behind the pastry case. He pushed open the door and guided Poe in. She whimpered on the other side when she realized he’d locked the door.

Poor girl. Rick felt like a big, fat meany.

“I appreciate that. Wild animals unsettle me.” The woman pulled off her leather gloves to reveal long, slim fingers with nails polished a deep crimson.

“She’s not wild,” Rick said. 

“Right. Tell that to her teeth.” The woman dropped the envelope on one of the tables and unlooped the scarf to expose a slender neck. She turned in a tight circle to survey the store. What was she thinking? She obviously came from a place where the stores didn’t look like his.

“You knew Gail Hinsdale?” She leveled her gaze on Rick, then flicked a glance down to his ankle. “Do you want to sit down?”

“I think I’m supposed to ask you that.” He indicated the chair across from the one he currently had a death grip on.

She slid the chair out and sat on it, but just on the edge, not like she meant to stay for any length of time. This saddened Rick, because for the first time in his life, he didn’t have the urge to get rid of company.

He eased onto the opposite chair, and the muscles in his entire body relaxed as the pressure was taken off his ankle. The woman noticed.

“What happened there?” She peeked under the table.

“Snowshoeing incident.” He shrugged, determined not to explain any further though the woman waited a moment as if he might. “How is Gail? I haven’t seen her in a little while.”

The woman’s lips twisted down at the corners, and Rick had this ridiculous urge to scoot over to her side of the table and… and do something.

“Gail died.” Those piercing blue-green eyes grew watery. “My grandmother is gone.”

“I’m so sorry,” Rick said. “She was real generous with allowing me to tap her trees. Nearly doubled my productivity.” He had reaped nothing but benefits from his arrangement with Gail Hinsdale. One of the smartest, healthiest business moves he’d ever made. 

“She left me the property.” The woman extended her hand. “I’m Lily Hinsdale.”

Taking her hand in his and noting how cold her fingers were, he said, “Rick Stannard.” He looked at the envelope again. “Are you thinking of moving to the property?”

At this, Lily let out a loud laugh. “Moving to Vermont? Are you serious? I don’t want to be here right now, never mind live here.” She brushed her hair out of her face with a shaky finger.

“What’s wrong with Vermont?” Rick asked. It was the perfect place as far as he was concerned.

“Umm, everything.” Lily stretched her magnificent legs out to the side of the table and peered down at her boots. Cringing, she knocked her heels together letting caked mud drop to the floor. “Vermont is no California.”

California, of course. That explained the tan and the fashion. And the disgust for mud.

“Vermont has a lot to offer.” Why did he feel the need to defend his fair state? Why did he want this woman to like Vermont?

“I’m sure, but I’m… high maintenance. Don’t have any real love for flannel or fleece. And don’t get me started about the woods.” She peeled off her coat revealing a fluffy brown sweater that ruffled at the collar and the wrists. Rick had never seen a sweater that fancy.

“The woods are the best part of Vermont,” he said.

“The woods are Hell.”

“I’ll bet I could change your mind about that.” Had he stepped out of his body? Who was this guy, talking to this woman, and actually picturing himself leading her on a hike in the thawing woods?

Lily regarded him for a silent moment, and for once, he didn’t like the quiet. What was she thinking? Probably that I’m the exact opposite of every guy she knows in California.

“No. I’m certain the woods and I don’t mix. Anyway, I’m here about the property, not to discuss the nonexistent finer points of this forgotten realm known as Vermont.” She brushed at her hair again, and the trembling in her hand was still there. Why was she so nervous? “I have a proposition for you.”

“Yes, I’ll buy the land from you.” He’d wanted to do that before Gail had constructed her fortress on the property, but he hadn’t had the money then. He had it now thanks to her letting him lease her maple trees and his barn-building business.

“Oh, umm, no. I don’t want to sell the property to you,” Lily said. “I want to sell it to another buyer and buy yours.”

Curious about Rick’s reaction to Lily’s proposition? Download MoreThan Pancakes, Book One in The Maple Leaf Series, for #FREE.    Amazon   Other Retailers  

If you like it, review it. If you don’t like it, read it again. I’m sure you missed something.

And Happy Valentine's Day... you know, if you're into such things. 

Toodles,

Chris 
www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com 

A Stormy August on the Coast + An Excerpt by Amber Leigh Williams

Walking "our beach" a few weeks before our boy became a big brother....

 

August is here. Hard to believe, right? For those of us on the Gulf Coast, it means one last month (hopefully) of intense heat. Unfortunately, this is the month where we really have to start watching the tropics for potential hurricanes. Though the tropics have been pretty quiet this year, it doesn’t stop those crazy summer storms from sweeping over our house at a moment’s notice.

Last week, I put my newborn in her bouncy chair where she likes to take short power naps during the day so that I could get her big tough toddler brother to sleep for an hour or two. As I closed the living room curtains to help bring on the sleepies, I noticed that it looked slightly overcast. Toddler guy and I settled into the rocking chair and slowly began to wind down for naptime.

Ten minutes later, as he was just starting to close his eyes, I heard thunder rumbling. It sounded close and began to shake the house. My guy likes watching big storms roll in from the window overlooking our front porch so when he heard the storm getting closer and closer, sleep became the last thing on his mind. As rain began to lash the front of the house, I sighed. Naptime’s hard enough as it is for him to do. Add in the noise and excitement of severe weather and this mommy can count out any quiet time for writing during the day.

However, this storm seemed to be gaining in intensity. I peeked out through the curtain and was shocked to see the wind all but laying down the trees in our front yard. I could hardly see the street, the rain was coming down so hard. I got that eerie feeling. You know, the one you get if you’ve ever seen hurricane or tornado weather. That instinct that tells you to head for the cellar.

Calling my guy away from the window, I picked up my newborn (bouncy chair and all) and ran for the bedroom closet (our version of a cellar). As I set her deep in the closet amongst winter boots and hanging coats, I noticed that my guy wasn’t with me. Alarmed, I rushed back to the front of the house to find him…that’s right…sitting at the front window between the parting in the curtain watching nature’s fury in awe. You see, this is the problem with daredevil boys. That “no fear” mentality is great when we ride on the family boat at high speeds or when we want him to try something new like sports or sleeping over at grandma’s. But when it comes to those things that are clear “no no’s” yet are just too irresistibly thrilling for him to resist (like, I don’t know, scaling the back of the sofa like a tight-rope walker…or doing a Superman dive off the dock into the water at the lake all by himself…) I really wish common sense was there to take over. Alas, I had to pick him up (no easy task; he’s a two-and-a-half-year-old inside a five-year-old’s body) and haul him back to the closet.



My guys, the aforementioned daredevils....

The closet has a light in it, thank goodness. I was able to calm the little one enough to hear what was going on overhead and give my husband a call to make sure he was out of the storm. When he heard how bad the weather was at home, he decided to drive straight to us. Yep, through the torrential downpour. (Like his love of cars, sweets, and power tools, Big Tough Toddler Guy gets his daredevil streak honestly.) I wondered how I was going to keep the boy from escaping the closet when he found a box of vintage toys from my childhood. In a rare moment of sibling comradery, he paraded half-dressed Barbies and Kens in front of his sister. He giggled over the naked ones and puzzled over the ones with missing limbs. (My sister and I once joked that if a child psychologist ever got a look into our toy box, their best guess would be that we turned out to be coroners or serial killers.)

It was difficult to hear anything over newborn’s raspberries and my guy’s chatter. When the door to the closet opened, we looked up to see the hub. He surveyed the explosion of Barbies and their counterparts crammed with the long-legged toddler, baby’s bouncy, and me with knees drawn up to my ears all in close confines and had himself a good laugh. “Storm’s over,” he announced before crawling into the fray and delicately explaining to one curious little dude the difference between naked Barbie and naked Ken.

This was the first storm in a long time that has scared me enough to hunker down. I’m pretty sure the last one involved one itty bitty boy baby. (Crazy to think that at one time he was that small….) Long before he was born, I remember walking the beach with the hub while a hurricane boiled in the Gulf. There was little room between the raging waves and the windblown dunes. The windows of the condos we walked passed emitted a loud, rattling sound. Remembering it all these years later still makes my spine tingle. That night the salt in the air from the wind crystallized on the power lines and caused massive power outages. I remember sleeping in the truck after Katrina with our dogs because the house was too oppressive without air conditioning. I also remember driving back from the lake after Hurricane Ivan and the destruction we came across as we cruised slowly with the rest of the evacuees down I-65. Not to mention the National Guard patrols who greeted us once we arrived home. Storms are a fact of life on the Gulf, one my stalwart son doesn’t seem to mind all that much. Ah, well. Maybe he’ll grow up to be a storm-chaser or a hurricane hunter. (I foresee long years and high blood pressure ahead for this mommy.)

He was in some serious trouble….
Cole Savitt does not want to deceive Briar Browning. But if he wants to see his son again, he has to find the weaknesses in her charming bed-and-breakfast, then get out of town fast! But the quaint inn isn’t the only thing charming him….
Cole’s straightforward plan becomes anything but when he begins to fall for the beautiful innkeeper. Suddenly everything’s on the line—his future with his son, a chance at happiness and the love of a good woman. Cole must rethink his priorities…and the stakes have never been higher.

When I wrote the first book in my Harlequin Superromance series, A Place With Briar, set in my hometown here on the Gulf, I couldn’t help but include some impressive tropical weather to help draw the hero and heroine closer together. If living in the same place for twenty-some-odd years has taught me anything, it's what it's like to have a category storm barreling toward my house and being helpless to stop it. Here’s a little Throwback Thursday excerpt from Briar and Cole’s summer romance….

Even with the fan cooling things somewhat in the bay-view suite, Cole couldn’t settle. He lay on top of the sheets in T-shirt and shorts, frowning at the ceiling and listening to the low-tuned, battery-operated radio he’d found downstairs.

The DJs promised to stay up through the night with listeners, providing the latest updates on Hurricane Brett, whose slanted eye was now staring straight down the watery barrel of Mobile Bay. The treacherous east side of the storm was already pounding the Alabama and west Florida coastlines. Several tornado warnings were in effect. Early damage reports trickled in from cell phones.

One message was clear for those who’d not evacuated – don’t venture outside. Law enforcement officers and meteorologists stated imperatively: stay away from windows. In case of tornado, find a safe, windowless room in the lowest part of the house for cover.

With Briar upstairs, Cole didn’t feel at all comfortable drifting off to sleep. Why had he left her alone? 

Suddenly, a deafening crash outside launched Cole out of bed. It subsided quickly. In the dim silence that followed, he heard the quick patter of footfalls in the hall.

He crossed to the room and peered out just in time to see the white tail of Briar’s robe disappear down the stairs to the first floor. Hot on her heels, he reached the landing as she ran to the back door.

When he saw her disengage the dead bolt, he rushed forward. “Briar, no!”

She didn’t stop or look back, yanking the door open.

“Don’t go outside!”

His voice was drowned by the banshee scream of the wind. The door sailed out of her grasp, crashing against the wall. She didn’t stop there. Gripping the doorjamb, she battled the wind, stepping over the threshold and moving out into the storm.

“Holy hell,” he muttered. It might have made him as crazy as she was, but he went after her without hesitation. Leaves scattered into the den as he made his way to the door and chased her onto the porch.

The clouds flickered with devilish light, illuminating the churning, rising bay—an animal all its own under the storm’s manipulation. The strobe quality helped him spot Briar at the far end of the porch, looking at the thick branch that had fallen over her vegetable garden and torn through the roof of the porch. Gripping the rail and driving himself into the sucking wind, Cole raised an arm to fend off the stinging slap of rain. Reaching out, he gripped Briar’s arm in a viselike hold and dragged her back.

It took forever to reach the door. Finally, he shoved her to safety and fought the wind again to wrestle the door closed. When it bolted, he whirled on her. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I had to see,” she explained, crossing her arms over her chest. Her voice sounded close to feeble. “I heard something break….”

As panicked as he’d felt when he saw her go through the door, he could’ve railed at her. But seeing the slight quiver of her knees and her pale features, he swallowed his fury. “You’re soaked.”

“You, too,” she noted. “I’ll go upstairs and wash off.”

He grabbed her by the hand. “You’re not going anywhere without me. We’ll both be safer together downstairs. We should be comfortable enough here.”

Before she could answer, another ominous clatter broke through the silence. Her face fell, stricken. “The porch.”

He reached for her. “Here, sit.” Gently, he ushered her down next to him on the sofa. “Just sit. There’s nothing we can do until morning.”

“Right,” she said, swallowing. “You’re right.” Another crash. “God.”

His arm wrapped around her shoulders. Comforting, he told himself. Strictly comforting.

But his need to protect, to enfold, overwhelmed him. He leaned back with her hugged close at his side. Tension loosened from his chest when her head fell to his shoulder and she didn’t hesitate to curl into him.

 

A Place With Briar is on sale for just $3.99 at Amazon, along with the two sequels, Married One Night (October 2014 Superromance) and His Rebel Heart (July 2015 Superromance)! I hope you enjoyed the throwback snippet!

 

A toast to hot August nights and summer reads!

 

Amber Leigh Williams lives on the Gulf Coast. A southern girl at heart, she lives for beach days, the smell of real books, relaxing at her family’s lakehouse, and spending time with her husband, Jacob, and their two children. When she’s not trying to keep up with rambunctious little ones and two large dogs she can usually be found reading a good romance or cooking up a new dish in her kitchen. She is represented by D4EO Literary Agency. Visit her on the web at www.amberleighwilliams.com!

Researching the Story: Grandmothers, Gun Ranges & Doohickeys

Okay, picture this…a woman in her seventies sitting on the second floor balcony of her house overlooking her perfectly kempt, picturesque backyard. The backyard is divided into four sections: the vegetable garden all the way to the left next a clear blue swimming pool, a grassy lawn complete with  a long, wooden swing, and to the right what the woman likes to call her “secret garden.” Here there are birdfeeders and birdbaths surrounded by a stone path and flora in abundance—confederate jasmine, ferns, butterfly bushes, and big, poofy, blue hydrangeas even the most seasoned gardener would envy. The secret garden is shaded by large, leafy trees and invites all winged creatures to enjoy what it has to offer. It’s summer and it’s Florida so the air is warm, damp, and tepid. It’s early in the morning, though, so the air isn’t yet heavy or hot enough to chase her back into the air conditioning. There’s a languid quality to the air and the early sun spills like liquid gold through the morning mist. The woman sips her coffee and watches the birds start to gather in the garden.

Suddenly, there’s a disturbance. The birds scatter from the feeder as a large squirrel climbs from the trees above and stealthily begins to shimmy his way down the feeder. The woman sighs. Along the back fence line, she and her husband have set up feeders designed for these nosy squirrels. They were a summer craft project for two of her six grandchildren. Yet this squirrel is deliberately worming his way to her “squirrel-proof” bird feeders instead of easily partaking breakfast from the squirrel feeders not ten feet away. “I don’t think so,” she says. She slowly reaches for something set against the wall to the left. It’s an old BB gun her father gave to her years ago. Still moving slowly as not to draw the attention of the animal, she rests the butt of the gun against her shoulder and sights it over the squirrel’s rear-end. A handful of seconds later, a loud report pierces the peaceful, morning lull. Birds scatter from the trees. The offending squirrel chitters his way back to the fence line and over it into the neighbor’s yard after being taught a thorough lesson.

This is a true story. In fact, I’m related to this woman. She is my grandmother. Next month when my new Harlequin Superromance novel hits the shelves, you could say this story is given its very own reincarnation. In the opening scene of the first chapter, the heroine, Adrian Carlton, is sighting her seven-year-old’s BB gun over the half-door leading out onto her own covered porch and she’s about to teach a squirrel a similar lesson. The squirrel gets away in this version but comes back later for another go-round, resulting in a trip to the emergency room for the book’s hero, James Bracken, who winds up in the crosshairs by accident.

Inspiration comes in many forms to the writer. For me and my July Superromance, His Rebel Heart, one of the many inspirations packed into this contemporary romance is my grandmother.



Can a rebel ever change his ways?  
Being a single mother and successful florist is tough, especially when your next-door neighbor is the man who shattered your heart. Eight years ago, bad boy James Bracken walked away from Adrian Carlton…and their unborn child. Now he’s back. And Adrian’s desire to protect her son from the truth of his biological father isn’t enough to hide the wild blue eyes of father and son, or to keep Adrian from surrendering to the raw passion between her and James. But is he truly the changed man he claims to be? Maybe this time his rebel heart really is home to stay.

 

When it came time for researching His Rebel Heart, I found my knowledge of BB guns sorely lacking. With a son well on his way to that "cowboy" age where interest in things like water guns and NERF guns becomes a reality (dear sweet lord, help me), I realized that I might need to know a bit more and not just for the purpose of my story. Fortunately, my husband knows quite a bit about guns and ammunition. He’s a cracking good shot. Or should I say “crack shot?” (Gun lingo? Not my forte.) When I started asking questions, he not only gave me the answers I needed, he asked if I would like a shooting lesson.

One afternoon we go into the woods—sans kiddies, of course. The hub tells me to put a few rounds in an old printer that once tormented me with regular error messages and random whining noises. “Only fair to put it out of its misery,” the hub tells me before we begin and I heartily agree. My shoulder tingles from the kick of the old weapon. He teaches me gun safety and marksmanship all in the course of a few hours. All the while, I ask what might seem like random questions to an outsider. (“If you accidentally wound up in the crosshairs, how bad would it hurt?” “Would you need a trip to the ER?” “How long would it take you to heal?”) The hub is accustomed to me peppering him with strange questions. He’s my live-in scuba diving, automotive, ammunitions, building and handyman expert. In the rare case he doesn’t have an answer for me, he does the research himself and gets back to me quickly. In return for my questions, he asks things like “At what range?” (“Fifteen to twenty feet,” I answer.) “Where’s the wound?” (I clear my throat and answer a little sheepishly. “In the hind quarters.” At this, he raises a brow. “It’s the dude, isn’t it?” he asks. I smile. “Of course!” He shakes his head and the corner of his mouth lifts into a wry smile. “That’s mean.” “It’s not out of spite,” I explain. “It's important to the story that I get him to the hospital.” He frowns “Does the shot have to be down below?” “Yes,” I tell him. “Why?” he asks. “Because it’s funny?” I say, again a bit sheepishly. He pauses, considers then nods. “You’re right. It is a little funny.”) And we go back to shooting.

 

When we’re done with the BB gun, I expect the lesson to be over. The hub looks around, makes sure there’s no one in the area and reaches back into the waistband of his jeans. “While we’re here…” he says and takes out his pistol. I frown. “Is this where you kill me?” He points to a target twenty feet away. “I want you to practice with this. Aim for the inner circle.” I give him my I-don’t-like-handguns face. I don’t. I really, really don’t. It took me a while to reconcile myself with the fact that we keep weapons in our home. However, I married a man who was introduced to guns at a very young age and who was raised a hunter and not likely to change. He understands the responsibilities that go hand-in-hand with gun ownership. He keeps all his guns locked up tight and up high away from little hands. When he comes home at night, I hear the comforting clicking sound which means he’s double- and triple-checking that there’s nothing chambered. (Another comfort? Knowing that if we’re ever in a bank or a store or anywhere else in public with our children and there’s a gunman at large, the steadfast and levelheaded man next to me has a conceal-and-carry and won’t hesitate to defend their lives.)

Back in the woods, he sees my hesitation and he reminds me of several break-ins in our neighborhood through the years, most of which took place during the day. He also mentions the break-in at my other grandmother’s house months before while she was away from home. I think of the scene in the latter half of the book that I'm dreading writing during which the heroine's life in endangered by her abusive ex-husband. More so, I think of our babies and the frightening world we live in and I take the pistol. I get another lesson in gun safety. “Red is dead,” he tells me. “Wait,” I say. “Red means the gun is dead or the person you’re aiming at is dead?” “The person,” he tells me, making sure that gets across. I digest that tidbit before the hub teaches me how to load the clip and how to check to see whether or not there is a bullet in the chamber. He stands behind me as I face the target. There’s much more of a kick to the pistol than the BB gun so he stands behind me and fixes both my hands in place over the gun. I’m shaking like a leaf by this point so he holds my arms steady as he counts off and I squeeze the trigger. Despite his front braced against my back and his arms locked on mine, I still shriek like a girl and jerk at the report, so much so that the empty shell pings back and hits me in the nose as it is ejected from the gun. The hub curses and says, “Should’ve brought safety glasses.” “You’re damn right,” I say, shaken up a good bit more. The gun feels heavy in my hand, a foreign object I sense that I have no business touching. It occurs to me more than ever that my dislike and fear of guns stems mostly from the fact that I know nothing about them or how to handle them. So I listened carefully as he walked me through it again. By the time we are done and I watch the hub put the now unloaded pistol back into the waistband of his jeans, I’m still not comfortable with the weapon. I believe firmly that it’s never safe to be too comfortable with firearms. But I now know enough to use one in the event that I ever have to. As we walked out of the woods, I tell him how much I hate that our children live in a world in which we have to learn to use weapons to protect ourselves. Knowing how much that keeps me up at night, the hub puts his arm around me and assures me, “You’ll probably never have to.” I say, “Even if I don’t, all this will be great book fodder one day.” He laughs and says, “That’s my girl.” (I encourage everybody to learn about gun safety or to take a gun safety course, especially those with access to firearms. You can never be too careful.)

A few days later, the hub gets peppered with more research questions. He’s out in the garage changing the brakes on the truck. Our son is sitting next to him on the concrete floor, rearranging the shiny, silver pieces in the hub’s master socket set. I pick up one of the tools spread across the floor around them and ask, “What’s this doohickey?” He glances up and answers, “Torque wrench.” I pick up another tool and ask, “And this one?” He looks at me like I should know this one. “A crescent wrench,” he says. “Hm,” I reply and glance over the tools again. “Would you say you need all these to work on car engines, too?” “This is about your book, isn’t it?” “Yes,” I say. I explain that the hero is a skilled automotive mechanic. “Why do you ask?” I ask him. He reminds of that time he was working on his brother’s truck early in our relationship and he tried to walk me through basic engine mechanics. “Oh,” I say, remembering that interlude well. Even after the thorough lesson, I failed to understand how an engine works. I still have only a rudimentary knowledge of engine parts. Battery. Starter. Spark plugs. That’s about it. It’s really fortunate that I married such a know-it-all who can tell me these things (and fix them if needed). The hub smiles and says, “If you’re interested in tools or engines, that usually means you’re up to something.” “Guilty,” I say with a grin.

 

In the "Dear Reader" letter at the beginning of His Rebel Heart, I couldn’t help but note my husband’s influence on this book in particular. It just so happened that over the course of writing the story that the hero slowly evolved into somebody tall with a beard and at one point (probably one of my favorite scenes of the book) with a tool belt slung low around his hips, much like the man I’m married to. (Sh! The name James might come from the hub's middle name, too.) I owe a good chunk of the character of James to him, just as I owe the opening scene of the book to my grandmother. Hopefully neither will mind finding small reincarnations of themselves in the book when they read it.

Just for you, Roses, I'm revealing the first excerpt of His Rebel Heart here on the blog today. I hope you enjoy! You can preorder your copy of the book for just $3.99 at Harlequin, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo today....

 

"I don't want you to be alone..." 

 

Adrian sighed. "James, I have been alone, for a really long time." 

 

"I'm sorry," he said. "Adrian...I am so, so sorry." 

 

When he drew her into his arms, she was helpless to stop him. She felt his lips come to rest on the top of her head. His arms wrapped around her back, closing her in, tightening. 

 

He simply held her, for what seemed like ages. 

 

A small eternity passed in the space of moments. Memories stirred, whispering to life, ghosts of what had been.  

 

When his lips touched hers, it felt so natural. The simple press of his lips brought her back to life. Her heart fluttered, lifting and soaring.

 

She should have pushed him away. After everything, she should shove him back, make him leave. Instead, she let the moment stretch, deepen until she felt him brush up against the soul she'd buried from everything and everyone...

Exclusive Excerpt from A PLACE WITH BRIAR by Amber Leigh Williams

I have some news I've been wanting to share with my fellow Roses and our readers for some time - I'm a Harlequin romance author! My first Superromance, A Place with Briar, will be released in mass market paperback and ebook this April, and I am thrilled! This book is very close to my heart because it takes place in my hometown, Fairhope, Alabama on the Gulf Coast. Coincidentally, in January, Travel magazine named Fairhope one of "America's Most Romantic Towns." I can vouch for this since I fell in love with my husband against the backdrop of Fairhope and summer sunsets on the bay. Ahhh, memories.

I can't wait for readers to get to know my wounded hero, Cole, and his kindhearted heroine, Briar, as much as the place they both come to know of as home! So in honor of Valentine's Day (my favorite holiday), I'd like to post the first excerpt from A Place with Briar here at Roses of Prose! Enjoy....

 

 

 

He's in some serious trouble

Cole Savitt does not want to deceive Briar Browning. But if he hopes to see his son again, he has to find the weaknesses in her charming bed-and-breakfast, then get out of town fast! But the quaint inn isn't the only thing charming him.

Cole's straightforward plan becomes anything but when he begins to fall for the beautiful innkeeper. Suddenly everything's on the line—his future with his son, a chance at happiness and the love of a good woman. Cole must rethink his priorities – and the stakes have never been higher.

Here's your first sneak peek at Briar and Cole's story....

Cole took off his helmet as Briar rubbed warmth back into her thighs. For form’s sake, he checked the gauges before switching the lights off and pulling the key out of the motorcycle’s ignition. Shifting to pocket it, he glanced back at her. “You all right?”

“A little warmer,” she said in a voice coated in sleep.

 

He felt the tug again down low and cleared his throat. “Need some help down?”

 

“I’ve got it.” Still, her hand gripped his shoulder as she dismounted.

 

Sliding off, he shifted from foot to foot, trying to get the blood moving. Preferably away from his pelvis.

Cole followed her up the steps to the inn as she unlocked the door, holding it open for him to enter then shutting it at his back. She flipped the latch behind them and switched on the entryway light. “I guess I should thank you, Cole.”

 

With a short smile, he led her down the hall to the kitchen. “Only if you enjoyed yourself.”

 

“I did,” she said, a little surprised. “I’m sorry to say I didn’t expect to.”

 

As the stove light fell over them and he turned to face her, he let out a laugh.

“What?” she asked, alarmed.

 

He gestured up. “You’re, ah…still wearing the helmet.”

 

Lifting a hand to it, she gasped. “Oh, shoot. I forgot all about it.”

 

When she struggled with the strap, he stepped forward to rescue her. “Let me get it.”

 

She closed her eyes. “I can’t believe I forgot. It felt so awkward when I first put it on.”

 

“You were relaxed,” he told her, making quick work of the strap.

 

“I admit, when I warmed up, I got kind of numb.” She pried off the helmet, running a hand over her loosening ponytail.

 

He began to step back then couldn’t. His blood sang at the sight of her flushed cheeks and heavy lids. As she pulled the band from her hair, raking it with her fingers and teasing the strands into place over her shoulders, the scent enveloped him.

Everything he’d felt that night swamped him again, leaving little room for rational inhibition. He moved in, no warning. Her breath had barely caught before his lips captured hers.

 

A small sound of surprise escaped her throat as his hands closed over her hips, maneuvering her back against the counter. She gripped his shoulders but didn’t push him away. After a shocked second, her fingers curled into his shirt.

 

Her lips were soft, plusher than he’d imagined. Sinking in, he didn’t progress further. He could’ve gulped, taken, plundered, demanded. But he held back because her breath cascaded over his face. He opened his eyes and saw the pinched bar between hers. As if, like him, she fought a costly, silent inner battle.

 

He lifted his lips but didn’t step back, waiting for her to look at him.

 

It took her a minute. With a great deal of effort, her lids pried back from her stirring, honey irises…and heat kindled in them, throwing a lit match on the dry brush inside him.

 

She pressed her lips together and searched his eyes. They parted once then twice before she whispered, “What was that?”

 

His heart thumped heavily between them, and he didn’t think he could stop it. “I…I’m not sure.”

 

Her teeth latched on to her lower lip in a move that tormented the hell out of him, and her gaze lowered to his mouth. “Maybe you could…do it again?”

 

No mistaking the request. The plea. Glutton for punishment, he gazed at her lips. Wanting. Needing.

Facing once again something he could not have.

 

A PLACE WITH BRIAR © Amber Leigh Williams

So there you have it! A little teaser to get you by until April, I hope! A happy (early) Valentine's Day to everyone...and be sure to check out my website where you can sign up for my new mailing list with more exclusive info on A Place with Briar and other upcoming titles. A Place with Briar is available for preorder now....

Amber Leigh Williams lives on the Gulf Coast. A southern girl at heart, she loves beach days, the smell of real books, relaxing at her family’s lakehouse, and spending time with her husband, Jacob, and their sweet, blue-eyed boy. When she’s not running after her young son and three, large dogs, she can usually be found reading a good romance or cooking up a new dish in her kitchen. She is represented by Joyce Holland of the D4EO Literary Agency. Find more on the web at www.amberleighwilliams.com.

The SPOOKIEST scene from A Man Like That by Alison Henderson

I don't write horror; I don't even write what most readers would consider suspense. The problem is, I'm a chicken. When I write a scene, I'm always deeply present. I see, hear, smell, and feel every detail along with my characters. And I hate to scare myself.

In order to write the following scene from my post-Civil War historical, A Man Like That, I had to allow (i.e. force) myself to experience three of my hot-button fears: heights, caves, and being overpowered.

In this excerpt, Morgan and Jessy are searching for his pregnant sister, who has run away:

He reached back. “Take my hand. I’ll go first. The trail gets steep up ahead, with lots of loose rock underfoot.”

She entrusted her small hand to his and followed him. Morgan was right. A few yards into the woods, the trail began a steep descent toward the rushing cataracts of the river. The trees barely muffled the splashing sounds of water racing over rocks, fallen tree trunks, and any other impediments nature had the nerve to throw in its path. Several times her feet slipped on loose pebbles, but Morgan’s strong grip held her upright.

“Where are the caves?” she asked, trying to subdue her panic. The incline was so steep it seemed they were sliding down the face of a tree-covered cliff.

“The caves are above the river on this side.” He squeezed her hand. “We’re almost there.”

They skittered down another short section of trail before coming to rest on a ledge of solid rock. The sounds of the water were very close now. Hesitantly, Jessy stepped toward the edge of the rock ledge and peered over. About twenty feet below, the river coursed through the wide gorge it had carved in the rock. An unfamiliar fear of heights assailed her at the sight of the sheer drop, and she jumped back.

Morgan clasped her hand, drawing her toward him. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.”

“That’s very reassuring,” she replied, trying to sound unconcerned as she regained her footing.

He tugged her hand. “The caves are over here.”

She turned to follow but stopped short when she spotted the gaping black maw in the side of the hill. A prickly chill raced up her arms. The dusky mouth of the cave was ominous enough, but the striped limestone walls soon disappeared into an inky blackness that appeared to descend straight to the center of the earth. She held back at the entrance. “How can you search in there? It’s too dark to see anything.” She tried to mask her anxiety with logic. “There might be

animals in there, a bear or something.”

“What’s the matter? Lost your nerve?”

His teasing voice raised her hackles. She jerked her hand from his grasp. “It just seems like a waste of time if we can’t see.”

Morgan slid the small pack off his shoulder. “Unlike you, I came prepared. I brought a candle.” He struck a match.

She crossed her arms. “I’ll wait for you here.”

He reached out a long arm, snagging her elbow and pulling her with him toward the cave. “You’ll be safer with me. You’re more likely to be eaten by a bear out here, anyway. It’s too early for the bears to hibernate. They’re out hunting for food, fattening up for the winter.”

At his mention of bears, Jessy grudgingly ceased her resistance. She had managed to avoid meeting a        bear for twenty-one years, and she didn’t want to  spoil her record this morning. At least Morgan was armed if they should encounter any hungry wildlife.

The entrance of the cave was tall enough to stand in. She glanced at the rock walls lit by the candle’s yellow glow. Strange markings and drawings covered the walls, and the ceiling near the entrance had been blackened by smoke. She shivered. “Someone’s been here, but I don’t

think it’s Sally.”

“These caves have been used as long as there have been people in these hills,” Morgan replied. “Those drawings were made by the Indians long before white men moved into this part of the country, maybe even before they came to America. Since the Indians left, the caves have been used to hide all sorts of things. Caleb and his friends used to hide whiskey and counterfeit money here.”

“Well, Sally’s not here, so I think we should go back outside.”

“I want to check a couple of smaller chambers in the back. I might be able to tell if she spent the night here.”

He held the candle closer to the back wall, and Jessy saw a smaller opening, just big enough to crawl through. Her heart began to pound, and she couldn’t seem to draw a full breath. “If you think I’m going through that hole, you can think again.”

He crouched near the entrance to the smaller chamber. “You want to stay out here by yourself?”

“I’m not moving from this spot. If a bear comes, I’ll scream. I promise.”

He cocked a brow. “Suit yourself. I won’t need my rifle, so I’ll leave it with you. Try not to shoot yourself.” With that ringing vote of confidence, he laid the weapon on the floor of the cave and disappeared through the hole, taking the candle with him.

Although her eyes had partially adjusted to the dim light, Jessy inched back toward the entrance. If she stayed just inside the mouth of the cave, she would be keeping her promise, but she would also be able to see out and breathe fresh air. Maybe that would help fight the feeling that the walls and ceiling were closing in on her.

Suddenly, the light dimmed, and a dark outline filled the entrance, the outline of a man with a gun. Jessy gasped. With a speed belying his size, the man reached in, grabbed her, and clamped a filthy hand over her mouth, stifling her cry. She struggled in his grasp, but he was huge, huge and unkempt and as malodorous as fetid swamp water.

“Stop wiggling,” he growled low in her ear. He pinched his meaty fingers together for emphasis, grinding her soft inner cheeks into her teeth. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and she fought harder. She struggled to form sounds in her throat. She had to make some kind of noise. She had to warn Morgan.

“Shut up and hold still, or I’ll have to knock your head into the wall,” the giant threatened. He lifted her off her feet and made a motion to follow through on his words. Jessy stopped struggling. She couldn’t do Morgan any good if she were unconscious or dead.

“We’re going to wait here quiet-like ’til he comes out,” her captor whispered. His hand pinched tighter, and her eyes watered from the pain.

“You understand?” he asked.

She nodded the best she could. Who was this monster, and what did he want? He must have watched them enter the cave, because

he obviously knew Morgan was with her and intended to capture him, too.

“There’s no sign of her here, but I did find a sizeable stash of corn liquor.” Morgan’s voice echoed from the smaller chamber.

Jessy struggled and tried to cry out, but the hand across her mouth tightened brutally.

“I wonder if it’s part of Ethan’s supply,” Morgan continued. His head reappeared through the opening.

At that moment, Jessy gave a sudden, sharp kick backward into the shin of the man who held her, catching him by surprise.

“Yeooww!” he howled, but his grip remained as

tight as ever.

Morgan’s hand shot forward toward the rifle he’d left on the floor of the cave.

“Drop it, Bingham, and come on out of there,” the monster growled. “I got your lady friend here, if that’s what you call this hellcat in pants. If you want to make sure she don’t get hurt no worse, you’ll come out real careful-like.”

What about you? Do you like to be scared when you're reading, or writing? What scares you most?

Alison

www.alisonhenderson.com