It’s my favorite time of the week again: Time to share an excerpt for the My Sexy Saturday blog hop.
The rules, in case you’ve forgotten:
Post 7 paragraphs or 7 sentences or 7 words. The choice is yours. It can be from a WIP or something you already have published. Your post should be live by 9 am US Pacific Time on Saturday. Put those lucky 7s to work for you!
This week, I’m giving you seven paragraphs from the beginning of OVEREXPOSED, the third book in my Women of Willow’s Grove collection. This time, Mike James, the object of Erin’s lust at the start of OPERATION SNAG MIKE BRAD (Book 1), finally gets the happy ending he doesn’t believe he deserves.
Before he gets there, though, he has to go through a whole lot more torture and self-flagellation.
I’ve always liked Mike. He’s pure figment of my imagination — but that’s not to say my imagination wasn’t sparked by a coworker. The guy was Greek-god-gorgeous, like Mike. Flirty and funny, too (also like Mike). Anything Mike does (or did … or didn’t do) is all on me, though.
In this scene, heroine Breanne Garvey (photographer for the Willow’s Grove Journal-Times), is at the tiny town’s male strip joint for her roommate’s bachelorette bash. She doesn’t yet know that Mike, her coworker at the paper, moonlights there.
How much you want to bet she’s about to find out? 😉
***
This “Masked Avenger” reminded her of Mike: Tall, blond and — behind his black Lone Ranger-type mask — chock-full of cuteness potential. The man had well-defined thighs, and when he turned around to shake his rear end in her face, she could see that it, too, was in perfect shape. And every inch of exposed skin was a nice, even golden color — the color of smooth clover honey.
Just like Mike’s tan.
Suddenly the idea of flirting with this guy didn’t seem nearly as far-fetched. She was only a virgin, not dead — and having Mike James dance for her was full of potential. Intriguing possibilities blossomed in her fertile brain … ideas a good girl would never act on.
No harm in looking, her inner rebel assured her.
For once, she listened. After all, it was likely the only chance she’d ever have to see Mike in the flesh. If he hadn’t picked up on the “let’s date” vibes she’d been sending him for the last year and a half, she doubted he ever would — although she’d never understand how a guy who loved women could be so darned oblivious to her hints.
Pretending it was her colleague in front of her, she dropped her hands so she could enjoy the view. She even went so far as to accept the bill Cassie waved under her nose. Why not have some fun? Cassie was right: She wasn’t getting any younger.
But where do I put it?
When I decided I wanted to join the ranks of indie publishing last spring, my initial plan was to release my first book, OPERATION SNAG MIKE BRAD, around my birthday in October. I thought having a book out by my 42nd birthday sounded like an excellent idea.
Plans changed, and I decided to test the publishing waters with a holiday novella, out in November, instead.
Then I sold DIVA IN THE DUGOUT to Turquoise Morning Press. Today, I got word that they’ve set DIVA for release the week of Oct. 15 — just a week after my birthday (Oct. 7).
Turns out I’ll have a birthday book after all.
The universe really does have a sense of humor, doesn’t it?
On another note, it’s all happening so quickly! With final edits due Sept. 1, I’m going to be hard at work in August.
Welcome back to another My Sexy Saturday. I’ve really been having fun with this blog hop, and I hope you are, too.
The rules are simple:
Post 7 paragraphs or 7 sentences or 7 words. The choice is yours. It can be from a WIP or something you already have published. Your post should be live by 9 am US Pacific Time on Saturday. Put those lucky 7s to work for you!
Last Saturday, I shared a deleted scene from “Diva in the Dugout,” the book I just sold to Turquoise Morning Press. I signed the contract last Thursday. It’s my first sale. I was — and still am — very excited.
But this week, I’m going back to my holiday novella, “Home for the Holidays.” Here, Cher and Derrick just arrived at an Italian restaurant for dinner. This is the evening of the day they met up again at the accident scene.
I normally go the seven paragraph route, but this week I picked just seven sentences. I think they’re good ones. I hope you agree.
***
When they were seated at DeLuca’s, Cher dove into the basket of garlic bread with the enthusiasm Derrick usually saved for more carnal pursuits. Come to think of it, her moan of pleasure as she licked the butter from her fingers reminded him of a woman enjoying herself in bed. When her eyes rolled back in her head and she moaned again, Derrick squirmed in his chair.
He tried cooling himself off with a sip of water. “You really love that bread, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” She savored another bite before leaning across the table to whisper, “Sometimes, I dream about it.”
“Home for the Holidays,” coming to e-bookstores near you in November 2013.
You’ve probably heard the saying “Drummers do it with rhythm” — or some variation thereof. A quick search of Google revealed “Geologists do it in the dirt,” “Writers do it until their hands cramp” T-shirts and other products emblazoned with “Ham radio operators do it with frequency” and “editors do it with style.”
I’d like to add one to the list: Romance writers do it in fabulous shoes.
I didn’t go to RWA Nationals last week, but I saw plenty of pictures — and great shoes figured in many of them. Bestselling author Cherry Adair and Fellow Starcatcher (the 2011 Golden Heart class) Kimberly Kincaid are known for fabulous footwear. And just ask any of the Rubies about their shoe collections.
Naturally, when I prepped to have my official author photo taken this week, I had to dig out my own pair.
Gorgeous, right? The Boyfriend sure likes them … even if they make me taller than him.
Problem is, I can’t walk in the darn things.
I’m tall — 5 feet, 10 inches — so in heels I top 6 feet. And I’ve never liked being taller than all the girls and most guys in a room.
Consequently, I’ve never bothered to learn how to walk in high heels. I live in sneakers and flats.
It’s not that I don’t love pretty shoes, because I do. I have countless pairs of sandals and boots in my closet, in pretty much every color of the rainbow.
And I can drool over Manolos with the best shoe horses in the stable … although I doubt I’d ever drop that much cash on anything that didn’t come with an electrical cord. Gadgets are allowed to cost most of a paycheck, not shoes.
On the rare occasions I do wear heels, my ankles wobble like a kid playing dress-up with Grandma’s clothes. Worse, I live in constant fear of falling flat on my face, breaking an ankle and/or exposing my underwear to the world.
Thank goodness none of those misfortunes befell me Tuesday. Maybe that’s because I actually wore flip-flops to our photo spot, then changed into the pumps when it came time to take the pictures. When we traipsed across the parking lot to a different location, on went the flip-flops again.
Now that I’m on the verge of — cough — romance superstardom, I probably ought to start practicing walking in sky-high heels. (Save the cards and letters. I know selling one manuscript does not a superstar make … but a girl can dream.)
My feet in their natural habitat. High heels need not apply.
Or maybe I can start a new trend. I hear Bedazzled flip-flops are all the rage … somewhere. Out there. At least in the unexplored corners of my mind.
Who’s with me?
Vive la comfy footwear revolution!
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