Posts Tagged ‘Turquoise Morning Press’
Er … don’t get the wrong idea. There’s only one Wild Boy, actually.
I just couldn’t resist the chance to misappropriate another ’80s song title for a blog post. (Like The Escape Club, I’m living in the ’80s— just not headed for the ’90s. We’re smack-dab in the middle of 2013. Yikes. How did that happen?)
It’s Saturday again, and I’m sure you haven’t stopped by my blog to listen to me wax nostalgic for ’80s music. You’re here to check out this week’s My Sexy Saturday offering, right?
The rules, for those of you playing for the first time:
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!
A while back, I treated you to seven paragraphs of deleted material from DIVA IN THE DUGOUT. With DIVA coming out in less than a month*, I thought I’d give you another seven deleted paragraphs, this time from Dave’s point of view—hence the Wild Boy in the title.
Five years ago, when he and Mel first met, Dave was as wild as they come. Now, his challenge is to shed that bad boy image once and for all and step into the toughest role of his life: Fatherhood.
Keep in mind, this is from the first chapter that I decided was really a prologue before ruthlessly slashing it from the finished manuscript. (A hero and heroine both behaving badly made neither look sympathetic.)
***
Arizona Condors shortstop Dave Reynolds cocked his head as he considered the perky blonde’s question. He was always up for a little off-the-field action.
“What do you have?”
Her smile widened as she brushed her breasts against his chest again. God, she was beautiful. The short, spiky haircut emphasized her green eyes and full, pouty lips — classic beauty queen looks some women would kill for. “You mean I’m not enough?”
When she seemed ready to pull away, Dave held her fast. Hard nipples contrasted with soft, full tits. The concierge at his team’s hotel had said the locals were friendly, but this woman’s greeting went beyond friendly. She’d plopped into his lap and kissed him “hello.” Now she wanted to party.
The party in his pants was already in full swing, due in large part to her enthusiasm. Not that he was surprised. Women loved athletes, and he took full advantage of the Condors’ road trips to get his share of tail. It wasn’t usually quite this easy, though. Apparently everything — including desire — was bigger in Texas.
“You never answered my question.” The blonde watched him expectantly.
He noted the freckles dusting her nose. Despite her objection to being called young, she couldn’t be much more than 18 years old. But at 24, it wasn’t like he was over the hill. And if this barely legal Texas babe wanted to party, who was he to say no?
Dave swallowed again. “I think you’ll be more than enough.”
DIVA IN THE DUGOUT, coming from Turquoise Morning Press the week of Oct. 15. (*Scene not included.)
I’ve never liked the number 13.
And I’m not alone. According to Wikipedia, the Stress Management Center and Phobia Institute in Asheville, N.C., estimates that 17 to 21 million Americans are affected by a fear of this day, making it the most feared day and date in history.
“Some people are so paralyzed by fear that they avoid their normal routines in doing business, taking flights or even getting out of bed.”
I’m not THAT bad. But I am superstitious enough to avoid the number 13 whenever possible. At work, our computer system used to create a new version of a page every time you hit “save.” I’d keep close watch on that number, and when it hit “13,” I’d hurry up and do something else — even something as small as add a space to something — and save again. I was secretly convinced my computer would freeze up if I tried to work in the 13th version.
Same thing with photos. When I adjust them in Photoshop, I never set the brightness/contrast level at 13, for fear it’ll crash my computer. (Our system is old and slow, and has gone down for less.)
I secretly do a happy dance when a high-rise building doesn’t have a 13th floor. (I hate elevators enough without having to stare at a “13” button during the ride — unless they’re glass elevators. Strangely enough, those I handle much more easily. Maybe it’s because they feel airier?)
With my aversion to the number 13, you can imagine how thrilled I was when the calendar turned the page to 2013. I feared I was in for an entire year of terrible luck.
Now that nearly nine months of 2013 are in the can, I might have to change my tune.
Why? ’13 is turning out to be my lucky year — at least on the publishing front.
I made this Instaframe photo to commemorate the day I signed my first publishing contract.
I’ve sold not one but three manuscripts, and will make my Turquoise Morning Press debut with DIVA IN THE DUGOUT the week of Oct. 15.
Sounds like triskaidekaphobia will have to join the dislike/distrust of black cats in my book of superstitions debunked. The photo above is of my baby, Destiny, who crosses my path all the time and hasn’t brought me any bad luck. (In fact, she was the inspiration for both Bree and Mike’s cats in OVEREXPOSED.) Don’t ask my why she looks stoned in that picture. I snapped it just last night, and she had no access to catnip.
For more about superstitions, check out today’s post at the Ruby Slippered Sisterhood.
And come back tomorrow for a My Sexy Saturday post featuring my most superstitious heroine, Erin Mannering, and her hero, Brad Kingston, who — please forgive me — puts the “stud” in social studies.
Good morning, everyone. It’s Saturday, and you know what that means: Time to kick back with another round of My Sexy Saturday reads.
The rules:
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!
To celebrate the sale of my 2011 Golden Heart-finaling manuscript, BEAUTY AND THE BALLPLAYER, to Turquoise Morning Press, here’s an excerpt.
In this scene, the book’s opener, Meg has just realized she’s pregnant and almost lost her job. She and her still-employed co-workers have hit the local watering hole to celebrate the fact that they still have jobs. But she’s feeling weak and needs to sit — and finds herself battling a sexy stranger for the only open table in the bar.
***
As Meg slid into the seat he’d so ungraciously offered, she ordered her unruly hormones to simmer down. A man was the last thing she needed tonight — or maybe ever again. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to stare?”
“Sorry.” The word was an apology, but he didn’t look the least bit contrite. “I can’t help staring at beautiful women. It’s my biggest character flaw.”
Beautiful? After the day she’d had — confirming she was pregnant, fighting off morning sickness … all day long … and dealing with a fresh round of layoffs at the foundering ad agency she worked for — even a blind man would know she looked like hell.
Despite her bad mood and his too-obvious pickup line, Meg found herself smiling at the guy. After all, it took guts to tell such a blatant lie — and it’d be nice to talk to a brave man for a change. Her ex, who’d run off to Vegas last month to try his hand at the professional poker circuit, had certainly been lacking in that department. Besides, with her friends otherwise occupied, she had nothing to do but make conversation.
After enduring his appraisal, she had no qualms about completing one of her own. She slid her gaze from the tuft of thick, chestnut hair poking through the back of his burgundy-and-white cap downward, over his golden-brown eyes, straight nose and smiling mouth. She took in his toned arms, broad chest, tree-trunk thighs and — oh my.
Perhaps he had good reason for his arrogance. Meg jerked her eyes back to his face. After they’d mentally stripped each other, it didn’t feel right to not know the man’s name. She extended her hand. “I’m Meg.”
He eyed her outstretched hand, his lips lifting again. She grinned back as she rescinded her offer. He was right: They already knew each other too well for a mere handshake.
Beauty and the Ballplayer, coming in 2014 from Turquoise Morning Press.
In case you missed the good news on Facebook, I signed another contract today. And this time, it was a multi-book contract.
That’s right: I sold not one but two more books in my baseball series, tentatively titled “All’s Fair in Love & Baseball,” to Turquoise Morning Press.
They sent me an email earlier in the week about wanting to offer me a contract for BEAUTY AND THE BALLPLAYER, my 2011 Golden Heart finalist. And when I responded “Absolutely, positively yes, I accept,” I also mentioned that I’d begun writing Book 3 in the series. I said it was still in the early stages, and as-yet untitled, but gave a quick rundown of the premise …
It’s the first baseman’s story — spoiled second-generation ballplayer trying to outrun his father’s long shadow. The heroine is his lawyer, whom he thinks is the exotic dancer he got busted for trying to defend. (The dancer’s her twin sister, though.)
— From my email
… And they loved the premise enough to pick it up sight unseen.
Gulp.
That’s both marvelous and frightening, since I’ve only got a few thousand words down right now. But I have a week-plus of vacation starting next Thursday, and I intend to get at least the bones of the story down while I’m off.
It’s probably a good thing I didn’t mention Book 4, since it’s not more than mere glimmer in my eye: I see an injured pitcher falling for his physical therapist … I have no idea how he got injured, though, and no clear idea of the heroine.
Soon, there’ll be three books of mine running free in the published world. Plus my indie-pubbed holiday novella … I’d better get back to work!
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