Tag Archives: #amwriting

#throwbackthursday 2.1.2024

Today’s blog re-read comes from one I did for ROMANCING THE GENRES in January, 2021. Here’s the link: ROMANCING THE GENRES

 One of my favorite quotes of all time is from the amazeballs Maya Angelou, and I repeat it to myself often. 

Never has this thought been so profound in my writing life as it is right now.

When I started writing as a child I wrote like a, well, child. My short stories were a series of “and then his happened-s,” run-on sentences, and prose packed with adverbs, flowery descriptions, and analogies that had no real comparative basis behind them. My fiction read more like a diary entry than actual crafted storytelling. But I found great joy in the writing.

My graduate thesis was written from a scientific methodology viewpoint and reads like the driest medical tome ever penned. Facts, figures, graphs, statistics. Boring with a capital BORING. But I loved writing it.

As I began writing non-fiction articles on motherhood and the life of a 30-something for magazines after I had my daughter, I wrote with an easy, I’m-just-talking-to-you-over-coffee style. Nothing craft-heavy at all, no real plot or story structure, just a simple imparting of info laced with humor and self-deprecating insights. Writing these articles was a labor of love that made me feel lighter and more confident with myself as a new mother and a woman trying to navigate through a crazy world.

Even blog writing, which is more of a conversation with me in the driver’s seat brings me a sense of purpose and accomplishment. I can pop a blog post out in less than a half-hour most days, never have to edit it for content – only spelling mistakes – and then hit post without worry. Love that!

When I first began writing fiction in my 50’s I knew nothing about plot, structure, conflict, subplot, sub-text, or character motivation. I simply had a story in my head and wanted to get it on paper. I look at my debut romance novel, SKATER’S WALTZ from The Wild Rose Press, now and think, yeah, it was a decent story…but really could have been better. But I wrote that book with such joy in my heart during a time in my life that was very challenging. The sense of accomplishment and utter jubilation that it was actually published was a top ten event in my life.

Now that I write romantic fiction in a few sub-genres – RomCom, Contemporary, Romantic Suspense lite – I have to write in a way that brings the reader into the story, gets them hooked on the characters, and leaves them at the end of the book satisfied and wanting more from me. I have an obligation to the reader to present a satisfying product to them.

No easy feat, this, and one which – daily – gives me agita! I’ve gotten so worried this past year about selling books, marketing, and learning new digital ways to publish just to get my books in front of people that I’ve lost my way a little in the writing from my heart department. The joy just hasn’t been there and I think it’s shown in my writing.

So, after close to 30 books published, I’ve decided to do something that sounds a bit crazy, and, in all honesty, probably is.

I’m starting over. 

See? Crazy.

What it really means is that I’m going back to basics, armed with the wisdom I’ve managed to gather these past 5 years since I was first published. Readers want a story that they can tell the author just loved writing. They want to fall in love with the hero and heroine much the same way the characters fell in love with one another, and the writer did as well as she was bringing them to life.

I want that, too.

Those are the books I want to read, the stories I want to fill my soul. 

They are also the stories I want to write.

So, with age and experience, comes wisdom and I am taking that wisdom into 2021 and writing my heart out. I’ve got a list of books that will be written and released this year, some traditionally published and several new indie releases as well. I’m not worrying about marketing, sales, getting on bestseller lists, or even winning any awards this year.

What I am going to do is simply write my heart out because that’s what makes me happy. And I know when I’m happy, my readers are, too.

See? I know better now…so I’m going to do better.

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#wednesdaywisdom 1.31.2024

As we end the month, let’s do so with positivity!

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#tuesdaytease 1.30.2024

So, I am almost ready to release my Kindle Vella book Vindication into print. I’ve been editing and updating it for the past month and I even changed the title to RETRIBUTION because I like that one better.

If you aren’t a VELLA reader, this will be your opportunity to read my very first serial murder book. Long before I ever wrote romance I was obsessed with serial killers. In all honesty, I kinda still am. It stems from my psychiatric nursing background.

Here’s a little taste of the story…

Settled in the Mercedes passenger seat, Kella watched Tucker guide both cars, the agents following behind, back to the motel.

“I want to apologize for Sean,” she said. “Hedoesn’t usually behave like that. Seeing you, well, it set him off.”

Tucker fingered his bruised jaw. “You don’t have to apologize. I know he hates my guts.”

“He doesn’t hate you, Tucker.”

His left eyebrow bent into a you’ve-got-to-be-joking angle. “I know he still blames me for what happened, Kella. He feels it was my fault you almost died because of my mistake. I’ve felt the same way every day for the past ten years. And I’d feel the same way if I were in his shoes.”

“No, you wouldn’t and you know it. You’d find some way to rationalize what happened, compartmentalize it into some sort of learning experience, and try to figure out what to do better next time.”

He threw her a pained look.

Grinning, she added, “But it’s nice of you to say that.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes.

“You haven’t changed a bit, you know,” she told him.

“You have,” he blurted, regretting it in an instant.

“I know.” Her laugh was husky and tinged with self-deprecation.  “Three kids and a husband who owns the best restaurant in town will do that to you.”

“No, not like that,” he said, flicking a quick glance at her. “You look like you’re in the best shape of your life, actually.”

“I am. Karate plus a home gym helps.”

“It’s your hair. It’s darker, less red than it used to be. Longer, too.”

“Hormones. It darkened up with each pregnancy. I don’t look like a circus clown anymore, thank God.”

Tucker shook his head. “You never looked like a clown, Kella. Your hair was distinctive. It was part of you.”

She laughed and said, “That’s a very diplomatic way of saying it, I guess.”

“Your voice is so different. If I’d heard it on the phone I would never have believed it was you.”

She fingered the scar that ran the width of her neck from just under one ear, all the way to the other. Heavy makeup helped conceal it when clothing didn’t. Every time she looked in a mirror she was reminded of that horrible day.

“It sounds like you’ve been smoking and drinking too much,” he said.

“My doctor told me it was a miracle I could speak at all. The damage to the cords was extensive. I’m just happy to have a voice, no matter how I sound.”

“I imagine Sean thinks it’s sexy.”

Kella’s slow and thoughtful smile lit up the front seat. “Yeah. He does.”

“And you seem happy. Happier than I ever remember you being.”

“I am. I love my life.”

“It’s so different from your past.”

She thought about that for a moment. “In the big scheme of things it’s not. The main part of my life back then was spent taking care of Daddy. Now I take care of Sean and our girls.”

Tucker shook his head. “The main part of your life back then was spent using your magnificent brain to help the Bureau. You didn’t have the most normal of upbringings.”

“I survived.”

“Thankfully. I can’t imagine what your life is like now. The suburban housewife. Carpools; soccer practice.  Stepford,” he added, shaking as if an electrical current shot down his spine.

Her lips stretched into a grimace. “Not quite.”

“You were always so independent, so self-governing. Ready to pick up in a half second to run to a crime scene or fly off to one. It’s hard to think of you any other way.”

She shifted in her seat so she could face him. “Tuck, listen. My life is perfect for me. I’ve realized over these past years that before I was just moving through it, waiting for the next big case, waiting to help you or Daddy. I never did anything just for me. Everything I did involved, or was concerned with, one of you. When Daddy died and I decided to leave, I was making the right decision for me. I’ve never looked back.”

“Never?”

“Not once. I have everything I could ever want here. It’s all I want.”

“Tell me the truth —”

“Like I would lie?” she said, smiling when he turned a bemused expression on her.

“No, you never have. Do you ever miss it, even for a minute?”

She watched the streets pass by as they drove through the downtown. “Every now and again,” she began, “I’ll see you on a morning show, or the national news will be profiling the newest case you and the Posse are involved in. I’ll watch you, in typical Tucker Petrie fashion, sail through the questions and make the capture and arrest look like a piece of easy detective work, a no-brainer. And I’ll think to myself: if the people seeing this only knew what it does to you inside, how it makes you feel to get down to the lowest depths of humanity and view the world from the most jaded, sickest minds imaginable; to comprehend what supposedly civilized human beings are capable of doing to one another, you wouldn’t want the job for anything.”

She stopped, turned to him, and saw his lips tighten.

“In answer to your question, Tuck, no. I never miss it. Not even for a millisecond.”

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#tuesdayteaser #teaserTuesday 1.23.2024

I’m almost done with book 2 in the Heaven’s Matchmaker series, so here’s a little bit…

Twenty minutes later he came back upstairs to find her sitting in front of her laptop.

“So?” she asked.

“Good news/bad news. The wiring is fine. But you need to replace both units. They’re almost forty years old, according to the model info. It’s amazing they lasted as long as they did, but the washing machine’s got multiple issues and the dryer even more. It makes more economic sense to replace them both than to repair the issues. It’d be quicker, too.”

She blew out a breath, then flexed her neck side to side, as if stretching some kinks out. He crossed over to her when her hand slid up her neck to squeeze the back of it. “How long will it take to get replacement units?” she asked.

Before he answered and without asking for permission, he flattened his hands across her shoulders and began kneading.

If she was shocked or mad he was touching her she disregarded it, instead letting out a low, guttural moan.

“Oh, good Lord, that feels good.”

“You’re a network of knots back here, Layla.”

“Work hazard,” she mumbled, dropping her chin to her chest as he worked out a particularly tight muscle group. “I’ve been on the computer for a week, exclusively, doing all my work there.”

“How do you usually do it?” He dug his thumb into a mass of knots just below her hairline.

Oh. Wow. You’re good at this.”

He grinned. “Muscle strains are part of my job. Now, answer me. If you don’t work at the computer all day, what are you usually doing?”

“Visiting showrooms, warehouses. Design stores. I meet face-to-face with clients. Do consults.”

None of which she’d done since she’d been in town.

She slid her neck to one side and he pressed in, deeply, on her scapula. A shudder ran through her that zinged right through his hands and up his arm, like he’d touched a live, sparking wire.

Layla groaned again. The sound, so erotic, so enticing, so damn…pleasure-filled drew a line straight to his dick and he hardened like a brick in an instant. He’d give anything to have her make that sound while he was inside her.

The thought sent an ice river cascading over him.

He lifted his hands, rubbed them together once, then shucked them in his pockets.

What had he been thinking to touch her like that? So boldly. So…intimately.

She’s a client. You need to remember that. No mixing business with fun.

He eased out a breath.

No matter how much fun it might be.

Layla, oblivious to his mounting lust, tipped her head left and right a few times and sighed before she turned around.

Luckily, his hoodie fell below his hips, obstructing the bulge agonizingly pressing against his jean fly.

“I don’t think my neck’s been this loose in weeks.” She lifted her gaze to his, a question in her eyes. “How’d you learn how to do that?”

“My ex was a physical therapist. She practiced on me when she was in school.” A gentle shoulder lift and he added, “Some of it –” he rolled his eyes “– rubbed off.”

That tiny grin she’d shown him previously, built and grew until her lips parted, revealing perfect teeth.

Cody swallowed as his groin grew even tighter.

She dipped her chin a hair as she continued her perusal of his face. Her breathing was a little too fast and when her pupils dilated he took a step forward, then stopped mid-stride.

Her grin flew, a worry line grooving the spot between her eyes as she hissed in a breath.

“Layla—”

 “How long will it take to get a replacement washer and dryer?” she asked, the words rushing from her. “And please don’t say weeks.”

He shook his head to clear it. “I can have them here by lunchtime if you know what you want.”

“Really? How? I can’t imagine there’s an appliance store with that kind of inventory and same-day service in Heaven.”

“There isn’t. But there is the next town over. The owner and I went all through school together and because I bring him so much business he’s always willing to help with an emergency. And this qualifies as one.”

Thankful he had something to do instead of stand there, staring at her and wanting to do something to ease the ache in his pants, he pulled his phone from his back pocket and called up the store’s website. “Here.” He pointed to her desk. “Sit down and type in this web address. You can see the brands and models he offers. Decide what you want and I’ll give him a call to make sure everything’s in stock.”

She did as he asked and within fifteen minutes was assured both models would be delivered within the hour.

“I can’t believe this,” she said, when he disconnected the call. “Whenever I’ve dealt with dealers and businesses for merchandise for my clients, I always have to wait weeks, if not months, for the items.”

“You don’t live in a small town,” he said, lifting his toolbox again from where he’d left it in the hallway. “Those local connections go a long way toward making life easier. That old saw about one hand washing the other runs true here. Something you might consider if you decide to set up shop in Heaven.”

She stared across the room at him, a look he couldn’t decipher crossing her face.

“I’m gonna head up to the attic,” he told her. “See to those issues you mentioned. The delivery truck should be here in less than an hour.”

Worry. It was worry forming across her lips and pale skin.

“Can you be in charge of the delivery?” she asked, her voice shaking. It was subtle, and you’d have to know what she sounded like usually to actually hear it. But he did. “I mean,” she threaded her fingers together and pressed them against her tummy. “Since you know them, and everything. I’d just be in the way.”

Silently, he cursed her idiot ex- fiancé again. He doubted she’d ever worried a whit about not knowing deliverymen or anyone else for that matter. He could lay her hesitation and apprehension squarely on his indicted doorstep.

The asshole.

He’d give anything to wipe the worry and dread from her face.

“Give me a shout-out when they get here,” he told her. Relief drifted over her lovely face.

Good thing the idiot ex was in another state, incarcerated, because he really wanted to punch him in the face.

Stay tuned – publication date announcement coming…soon. At least I hope it is, lol!

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#teasertuesday 1.16.2024

Don’t let the little heart in that graphic fool you into thinking this is going to be a romance book discussion today.

I just decided to publish another of my VELLA stories and put it into print. VINDICATION was the first serial murder/suspense book I ever penned back in the day when I wasn’t writing romantic fiction.

This one involves the abductions and mutilation murders of 13-year-old girls in the DC area. The SPCD – Sexual Predators of Children division – of the FBI is a group of profilers who study this type of killer and they’ve been given the case. When the team is stymied, they are forced to call in a retired member of the group to help out. What happens then is creepy, gruesome, and – I think – riveting.

Here’s a little taste, which is the opening scene….

Virginia; Ten years ago.

“How does it feel to know you’re dying, Agent O’Brien?”

The soft, dulcet sound of his oddly feminine voice sent a river of ice-cold sweat down her spine. The knife slash he’d slit across her neck pumped blood, like a fountain bubbling over, drenching her. Her father’s dead body was sprawled across the room, the officer assigned to protect them, slouched against the wall where he’d been struck down after answering the demanding knock at the door.

The only movement in the room was the killer’s as he wiped her blood from his hands with a single paper towel.

“Do you feel a calm, almost spiritual joy welling up inside you?” He squatted in front of her, shaved head cocked to one side as he regarded her through eyes devoid of compassion and filled with psychotic glee. “Can you feel death approaching? See any white lights? Is your mind even working with any rational thought right now?”

He rolled the gore-filled towel into a tight ball and stuffed it into his mouth, then swallowed it in one quaff, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort.

“Mustn’t leave any evidence behind, must we.” The maniacal grin she’d grown to despise skittered across his face.

Her gun lay, inert, just beyond reach where it dropped when he surprised them with the attack. She tried to crawl her fingers to it, but the sheer force of movement was exhausting. Sweat pumped from her forehead, drowning her eyes, clouding her vision.

Watching her efforts, a bemused expression furrowed his brow and twitched at his lips.

“Don’t bother,” he told her. “Even if you had the strength to pull the trigger, you’d miss. About now your reflexes have all frozen from shock. Your breathing is shallow and quick, your pulse rate thready, barely palpable. All your blood is pumping out of your neck, none of it getting to your organs. You’ll die in another minute or so. I know how this works, Agent O’Brien.”

His mouth broke into a full-toothed smile. “I’ve made death my life’s study. What a rush it is to see the actual life leave a body and know I’m responsible for it happening. It’s a feeling that has no equal. Not even the best sex of your life feels so good.”

The feral grin broadened. “Power. Ultimate and absolute power over life and death. And I have it.”

Her weakened palm pushed against the butt of the gun while he spoke, then across it to slide a finger along the trigger.

“Are you for real?” he asked, derision lacing the question.

She tried to blink the moisture from her vision so she could focus on the gun.

“You really think you’re going to die a hero, don’t you? That I’d let you? Go ahead, then.” He rose and stared down at her, hands on his skeletal hips, sophomoric defiance in his stance.

“Go ahead,” he repeated with a careless shrug. “Try to shoot me. You won’t be able to. You’re too weak to lift your gun, much less fire it. You’ll wind up shooting the ceiling if anything. Guaranteed you won’t hit me.” He folded his arms across his chest and smirked. “I’ve got nothing else to do but watch you and wait for you to die, so just try and shoot me.”

She flicked her parched tongue over lips that tasted of metal and was fueled by the flavor.

“Okay.”

The word was almost inaudible as it croaked from her. With every ounce of life left, she leaned forward and, in one fluid motion, managed to grab the gun, raise it, point, and pull the trigger.

A shocked expression exploded on his face. Eyes bulging from their sockets, mouth paralyzed into a silent moue of amazement, the bullet shattered into his brow, dead center, freezing his astonishment in place, leaving a burning hole smoking with the heat of the bullet. A millisecond later his body fell straight backward, his head banging on the concrete floor, dead.

The gun bounced from her grasp as her hand banged back to the floor.

“I never miss,” she whispered. A volcanic coughing spasm spewed blood from her nose and mouth. Glancing over at her father, a solitary tear escaped from her eye and drizzled down her temple, while a screech of sirens blared in the distance.

Unable to keep her eyes open any longer, the world in front of her went black.

I don’t have a publication date yet, but it’s gonna be soon. I’ll keep you posted.

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#throwbackthursday 1.11.2024

So I’ve been re-reading some of my earlier in my career posts and thought it would be fun to put a few up to see how different things are now.

This one is from September 2019 ( and why does that seem like sososososos long ago?? Lol)

I posed the question: What are the 5 things you couldn’t live without?

My answers remain the same to this very day…

We’ve all played the game if you were stranded on a deserted island, what would you have to have with you in order to survive?

The routine answers are fresh water, toilet paper, shelter.

I think if you ask millennials, they’d say their iPhones and electronic devices before anything else.

But, assuming you have the things you need ( water, shelter, etc). what would be the 5 things other than the necessities you could not live without?

For me, the answers are easy.

#1 Diet Mountain Dew.  I’d need to have my daily fix

#2 My skin care products. I’m not going anywhere without my RetinA, sunblock, body moisturizers, and eye cremes

#3 Unlimited paper and pens. I can’t be stranded without something to write the tale of my deserted island experience about on.

#4 Flashlights with long-lasting batteries. I don’t like the dark. Or things that crawl and creep in the dark, like on a deserted island.

#5 My Kindle, loaded with 5000 books. Hey, I’m pretty sure I’m gonna be bored, so books are the best friends that you can take anywhere!

What are the 5 things you couldn’t live without??

Until next time ~ Peg

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#fridayfive 5 Must-haves in a Romance book… 1.5.2024

For my first Friday five of 2024, I give you…the 5 MUST-HAVES in a romance book. And I struggle sometimes to get them all in my books, lol!

  1. the meet-cute. Whether they bump into one another, literally (!), suffer from mistaken identity, get introduced as new co-workers after having a one-night anonymous stand, the meet-cute is vital in setting up the conflict for the romance to thrive and reach its conclusion with everyone happy ( reader and characters)

2. Strong characters. No one is going to root for boring, flat, or negative characters who defy growth and change. That, after all, is the premise of the romance novel. Take two people who would never have gotten together if left to their own devices, throw them together, and then allow them to grow and change into a couple we all, as readers, adore. I’ve read too many books ( and DNF’d most of them) where the main characters were just…wrong.

3. Believable tropes. Just like we need to root for the hero and heroine, romance readers need to know the basic premise, or the tropes used, to get them to their HEA. Forced proximity, best friend’s brother, secret baby, mistaken identity and scores more, all help define the road these two people will take in order to have them find love in the end. And all romance readers have their favorite tropes to read, and writers to write. My personal fav to read and write is friends-to-lovers because I am always on the edge of my seat to see who lets the other person know their feelings first.

4. Believable conflict. Again, you want to lose yourself in the story and not be reading and then think, this is just too dumb and no one would ever do/say this. I heard a great definition of a true conflict in a romance story at a conference once. Here’s the set-up: a fire marshall is called to investigate a scene of obvious arson with a death associated with it. The supposed arsonist? His girlfriend, a girl whose family died in a fire and the person responsible was the one found in the above fire.

Conflict to a T!

5. HEA. Or happily ever after for those not in the anacronym-know. In recent years, the HFN (Happily for now ) ending has also been used to define the end of the story. Whichever you choose to read or write, the end goal is for the hero and heroine to be together, have a defined love relationship, and be committed to one another.

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#Tuesdaytease 1.2.2024

So the next book I’m releasing into the romance reading world will be book 2 in my Heaven’s Matchmaker series, LOVE MATCH, Layla and Cody’s story.

Right now, this is gearing up to be a sweet-with-heat book ( not my typical sensual/steamy). We will see where it winds up in the end.

Here’s a brief snippet – and remember: this is a rough draft, so it’s still pretty raw and unedited:

As she drove through town her stomach growled. The only thing she’d eaten all day was one cookie from the box she’d brought Effie, and now she was feeling peckish. Her gaze caught the sign for the Love Shack as she passed it, and she turned the car around and pulled into the lot. Liv had mentioned the night before it was a great place to get take-out food and they had the best burgers in three states. A loaded hamburger sounded perfect right now.

For three o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, the lot was packed. She found a spot and then ran against the cold through the doors. The noise was deafening as she made her way through the jammed entranceway to the bar. Three big screen televisions covered the walls broadcasting simultaneous football games. Every table was filled with men and women in striking blue football jerseys with the Patriots distinct logo and team member names across them.

Football season was in full swing.

With cheers and catcalls from the throng aimed toward the screens, Layla made her way up to the crowded bar.

The bartender spotted her right away.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” he asked.

Layla craned her neck to look the guy in the face. He had to be six-six if he was an inch with shoulders and arms that regularly saw the inside of a gym. A shaggy mass of black waves drifted down to those colossal shoulders.

“Kick Loomis?”

One bushy eyebrow crawled up his forehead. “Who’s asking?”

Years of ingrained business etiquette had her extending her hand as she lifted up on her toes so he could hear her. “Olivia Joyner mentioned your name to me. I’m Kalya Warton. I—”

“Effie Mason’s granddaughter.” He nodded as he took her hand and cocooned it between both of his. Her own was swallowed up in its mass. “Yeah, Liv said you were visiting. And yes, I’m Kick. Your grannie’s a doll.”

“I agree.”

“What can I do for ya?”

“Liv claims you’ve got the best burgers in three states.”

“She’s not wrong.” His smile beamed like bright lights on a darkened highway.

Nodding, she said, “I’d like one, as rare as can be, to go.”

“Rare as in pink or mooing?”

She laughed. “Mooing is perfect.”

“Anything on it? Sides? Condiments?”

Her gaze glanced across the menu above the bar. “Provolone cheese, and an order of sweet potato fries, please.”

“Cop a squat,” he pointed to a recently emptied bar stool, “and I’ll get it for ya. Should be about fifteen minutes, tops. Want something to drink while you wait?”

“Diet Pepsi, if you’ve got it.”

He grinned. “Coming right up.”

“Thanks.”

She settled down just as a wave of shouts and cheers erupted from the crowd behind her. Grinning, she spun on the bar stool and before she realized someone was standing behind her, her knees banged into the person, forcing them to stumble backward.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see—you!

A pair of chocolate brown eyes peered down at her from under hooded lids.

“We’ve got to stop meeting this way,” he said, shaking his head, the ghost of a wry grin sliding across his mouth.

“Are you following me?” she blurted. The idea he could be a reporter bloomed fast and furious within her.

Those dark orbs widened as genuine shock filled his face. “What? No. No, of course not. It’s just…” he shrugged, “serendipity we keep bumping into one another. Or in reality, you keep bumping in to me. Maybe you’re the one doing the following.”

She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, and before she could protest, Kick returned with a glass in one hand, a go-bag in the other.

“Hey, Henry. Saw you come in. Got your order.” He handed him the bag, then placed the glass in front of her. “Here’s your drink, Layla.”

They both thanked him at the same time.

“Tell your folks I said hey,” Kick said.

The guy – Henry – lifted the bag and saluted. “Will do. And thanks for getting this ready so fast. My old man loves your wings.”

Kick grinned. “Music to my ears, man.” He turned his attention to Layla. “You’re order’s in.”

“Thank you.”

With a quick grin, he moved back down the bar while she took a sip of her drink for something to occupy her shaking hands. Embarrassment bounded through her and she didn’t want to confront the reason for it standing directly to her right. Three times in the span of two days she’d come close to knocking him over. Granted, she hadn’t been paying attention when she left Liv’s office so that was on her, but the time in the grocery store wasn’t her fault because of the way the aisles were constructed. And maybe she should have checked before spinning on her stool to make sure no one was close by. But still.

“I was only kidding,” she heard him say, dangerously close to her ear, the warmth of his breath shooting little tingles of awareness straight down her spine. A hint of citrus and spice hit her next and it took every ounce of will she could summon not to lean into him and sniff his neck. “I know you’re not stalking me.”

She lifted the glass in her hands, her lips firmly circling the straw as she lifted her gaze up to his face. Because she didn’t trust herself to say something inane or worse – snarky – she sucked the icy cold soda through the straw and tossed him a single nod.

His attention drifted down to her lips. She wasn’t sure because the lighting in the bar was subdued, but if pressed she would have sworn his pupils dilated when they settled on the spot, then lifted back to her eyes.

Layla knew she should swallow. The soda was so cold it was actually ice-burning her teeth. But she couldn’t. Either her body simply forgot how to, or the guy had paralyzed her ability to with the intensity of his gaze.

Whatever the reason, she sat there, not moving, just staring up at him. His eyes really were incredibly dark, the brown in them almost black. The threads of burnished red she’d noted in the natural light of day were softened in the artificial bar light, making the hair seem more like a deer’s pelt; a mix of browns, earthen tones, and lighter shades.

And again, an almost aching need to weave her fingers through it bubbled up, the tips of her fingers tingling.

Henry’s gaze stayed glued to hers as her own drifted down his cheeks to the day’s worth of stubble crossing his jaw. She’d always been a clean-shaven kind of girl when it came to her men but right now wondered why.

He tilted his head and inched closer to her, neither turning their attention from the other.

Another raucous cheer erupted from the crowd.

His eyes widened to the size of sand dollars and his entire body shook like a he’d been jolted by an electrical charge. Layla remained stone still, her lips still curved around the straw. He blinked several times before focusing in on her again.

“Well.” He shifted the bag to his opposite hand, cleared his throat. “Gotta go. See ya around. Layla.”

Publication date TBD!! Stay tuned for announcements. ~ Peg

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Gift a book…

When I was 8 years old my favorite present from Santa that year was a Webster’s Dictionary. Yeah. I know. I was that kind of kid, but let me run with this thought, okay?

So.

Dictionaries aside, BOOKS have always– and will always–be my favorite holiday present.

The year I got six brand new Trixie Beldon books I didn’t come out of my room for weeks on end.

The year Santa left the first four Nancy Drew Mysteries, I pretended to be sick when vacation was over so I didn’t have to go back to school. I wanted to stay home and just keep reading. My mother didn’t agree.

The year I graduated from college I gifted myself a set of Classics that included The Jane Austen novels, Gone With The Wind, and The Great Gatsby.

Needless to say, books are my go-to gift to get and give. When my daughter was small her “toy” pile was comprised of dolls and books. The older she got, the more books she received each year.

Giving a book as a gift – whether it’s fiction, non-fiction, a cookbook or a biography, means the person receiving the gift will have innumerable hours of reading pleasure. Flowers fade after a few days. Jewelry is nice, but aside from wedding rings, do you want to wear the same piece daily? Clothing is essential but how many of us really get pleasure out of an outfit after it is worn a few times?

Books can be read, re-read, re-appreciated, and re-evaluated. And they never get old. Paper may fade, but that’s the reason we have e-readers. Books impart wisdom and knowledge. Books can make you laugh, cry, get you angry, or make you happy. And books know no age limit to be gifted. You can give a baby a book that their parents will read to him/her, or you can give a senior citizen a book.

Books as gifts: it’s a good thing for the Holidays.

And (Shameless plug coming)  if you’re looking for some books to give as gifts and your gift-ee is a romance reader, give them one of mine ( or more!!!) You can find them all here: My Books

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#mondaymusings

I could actually write this blog any day of the week but since I like the alliteration of Monday musings, today seems worthy.

I’m at the point in my writing career – if you could call it that – where I thought I would be seeing a return on all the hard word I’ve been doing for the past 8 years. I’m not.

Let me e’splain.

Yesterday I put together all my receipts for the year so far because my hubby will be wanting to start our taxes soon. I have an entire folder of everything I’ve paid for regarding my writing this year – advertising, conferences, buying books from Amazon ( author copies), all things related to the fact I can have WRITER written on my occupation line on the tax form.

Then I went through my income for the year. Sales, royalties from publishers, KDP royalties, VEllA income.

Income vs expenses for the year? Not even close.

In fact, so disparate, it’s laughable. Or in my case, cryable.

If I weren’t married I wouldn’t be able to support myself on what I write. The national poverty level for a single income in 2023 is $14,580. This number is so much closer to my expenses than my income that – again – cryable.

I don’t think I’m the only writer experiencing this disparity in finances. In fact, most of the people I know who write are in a fairly similar boat to me.

So, why do we do it? Why do we take a loss year after year? Why do we bang our heads against our laptops when advertising dollars go up but the reward of those spent dollars goes down?

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

Okay, maybe writers are a little insane. But aren’t most creatives? LOL

For me, writing is a luxury I am afforded because I have a husband who can support the two of us, so I devote my entire workday to writing. That’s not the case with most writers. They have jobs outside the home in order to pay for an existence that will allow them to do what they truly want to: write.

If I were forced to support myself I would. No debate about it. And I would still write. Long into the night, early into the morning, on work breaks, whatever, simply because I must.

That’s the answer to the above questions. Why do we do what we do? Because we must.

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