With Valentine’s Day in just a few days, I wanted to remind everyone about the very first novella I ever wrote that was published under the Wild Rose Press’s CANDY HEARTS series,3 WISHES.
Do wishes have expiration dates?
Valentine’s Day is chocolatier Chloe San Valentino’s favorite day of the year. Not only is it the busiest day in her candy shop, Caramelle de Chloe, but it’s also her birthday. Chloe’s got a birthday wish list for the perfect man she pulls out every year: he’d fall in love with her in a heartbeat, he’d be someone who cares about people, and he’d have one blue eye and one green eye, just like her. So far, Chloe’s fantasy man hasn’t materialized, despite the matchmaking efforts of her big, close-knit Italian family.
But this year, for her big 3-0 birthday, she just might get her wish.
Here’s a little bit from his sweet romcom….
At about five minutes of ten, I was almost ready to turn the Closed sign on the door when it opened. I heard Janie’s breath hitch and turned from where I was sweeping up. Staying open late is always a risk, with the thought thieves will invade at the end of the day.
If the guy standing at the door glancing around the shop was a thief, then Dio mio, I wanted to be robbed.
About six foot, his hair was the color of a deer’s pelt, with autumnal golds and browns shot together in a glorious patchwork that grazed the collar of his jacket and curled a little at the ends. He wore a faded brown bomber jacket over a shirt I couldn’t see, but he had shoulders almost as wide as my doorway. A pair of well-worn jeans covered his mile-long legs, and the fabric on the stress points at his knees was practically white.
“We’re about to close,” I heard myself say. “Can I help you?”
It was at that moment he looked over at me.
His face could have been sculpted by Da Vinci or Michelangelo. A broad, smooth, forehead housed naturally arched eyebrows I knew some of my gay guy friends would have paid a fortune to have on their own faces. His cheeks were carved from marble, high, smooth, and deep. And his mouth, mother-of-God, his mouth. Full, thick, beautiful lips sat perfectly over a chin with a dent you could shove a button into and have it stay put.
“Sorry,” he said, those fabulous lips pulling up a little shyly at the corners. “I got stuck at work and couldn’t get here until now. I’ll be quick. Promise.”
So here’s the thing: the guy was gorgeous. But even if he’d looked like a frog with raw antipasto smothering his face, I would have dropped to my knees when he opened his mouth. Warm honey, a shot of raw whiskey, and a little hot puff of smoke wafted from his mouth like a fine and rare brandy being decanted.
Intrigued? Why not read it for VALENTINE’S DAY? Here’s the universal link so you can get it anywhere digital books are sold: 3 WISHES
And check out the other San Valentino romcoms if you like 3 WISHES:
Just an fyi- today’s snippet is fromINFLUENCEwhich is currently FREE on kindle until 12.19.2023. Have you read it yet? Now is the time to before the price goes up again on the 20th!
“Excuse me, Mr. Craymore,” I said. “I believe I’m next on your daughter’s next dance card.”
Sterling Craymore’s gaze raked me from head to feet, an assessing glare in his eyes and one, if I’m being truthful, meant to assure me he could cut me off at the knees if he wanted to. If I’m ever lucky enough to be a father I’m going to use that withering glare on all my daughter’s boyfriends.
“It’s okay, Daddy,” she said, removing her arm from the crook of his elbow crook and simultaneously planting a kiss on his cheek. She whispered something in his ear that had the suspicious look dissolving, to be replaced with one of pure paternal love.
I didn’t want to give her a moment to reconsider, so I stepped forward and extended my hand. “Shall we?”
Effortlessly she slid into my arms. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to simply enjoy the feel of her body close to mine. The song was a slow, jazzy ballad perfect for swaying to. Both of us, though, were too practiced as dancers to ever simply sway.
We were silent for a few moments as I glided her across the dance floor, each of us learning and concentrating on the movements of the other.
“You’ve done this before,” Mackenzie said, smiling, as I spun her to the right.
“Never underestimate the benefits of a good dance instructor.”
“Miss Davenport’s?” She asked, naming a school I knew catered to the wealthy.
“No. I took lessons in England as a boy, where I was born.”
“Why don’t you sound like your brother, then? His accent is charming.”
I lifted a brow as I stared down at her. “And mine isn’t?”
The tips of her ears went pink. “I meant,” she said, “When Charlie opens his mouth you know he’s English-born. I don’t hear a hint of anything in your voice.”
“It’s because I grew up in the States. When my parents divorced, my father wanted to come back here after being away from the country for almost a decade. He’d been running his business from England, but with the split, decided to return. Charlie got mom and I got dad in the divorce settlement.”
“That’s sad. But you two kept in touch, right?”
“Of course. He’s family. My older brother.” I grinned down at her. “Of course, he does like to laud the older part over me.” I glided her to the left. “We saw one another on most of my school holidays. The bond between us is strong.”
Her sigh drifted over me, the sound like the high register keys on a piano tinkling.
“It must be nice to have a sibling. I always wanted one, but.” She delicately lifted a shoulder.
“A blessing and a curse is what I tell people having a big brother is like.”
Her smile was like a thunderbolt and knocked me back as if I’d been struck by its force.
“So,” she asked, “how do you know Gideon?”
“I don’t. Not personally. I know of him through Nell. He’s friends with her new stepfather.”
“William McNab.”
“Yeah. When Charlie mentioned they were attending this shindig tonight, I wormed an invite.”
“Why?”
To meet you would have been an answer I’d need to explain, so I told her instead, “The cause is a worthy one and my mother raised us to support worthy causes.”
She nodded. “His clinic is wonderful. He takes in anyone, whether they can afford to pay for the top-notch care they receive, or not. One hundred percent of tonight’s proceeds from the silent auction are earmarked to continue that service.”
“Worthy and noble,” I said.
I glided her around a couple who’d stopped to speak to another pair of dancers.
“So, is this how you spend your free time, Mackenzie Craymore? Attend charity auctions? Hobnob with society movers and shakers? Have lunch with friends?”
“Dance with strange men?” she said back, making me laugh.
“Touche. I didn’t mean to sound snarky. I’d just like to get to know you better.”
That must have touched a cord. Her expression blanked a bit. “I keep busy,” she responded, noncommittally.
“Which tells me absolutely nothing.” I smiled when I said it.
“A woman likes to be a little mysterious,” she said, her lips twitching. “How about you? What do you do all day when you’re not attending charity fundraisers garbed in a five thousand dollar tuxedo?”
My brows shot up.
“I know the brand.” Her cheeks pinked a bit. Of course she did. As a professional social media influence, she must. But she didn’t tell me how she knew it.
Interesting. Her new career wasn’t a secret, not to people who knew who she was, anyway. Why hide it from me?
Since I hadn’t answered her question yet, I decided to go with my version of the truth. “I spend my days attempting to write the great American novel.”
“How’s that going?”
“Not well, lately. But it looks as if things are starting to look up. Right at this minute they are, at least.”
The implication she was the reason wasn’t lost on her. A rosy flush started at the tips of her ears and drifted down to her cheeks and jawline.
The music pulled to a stop. We didn’t. With the silent band surrounding us, we continued to move as if lazy music pushed us on. If anyone thought it odd, I didn’t care.
“How do you feel about lunch?” I asked.
She blinked a few times. “I eat it two, maybe three times a week.”
Again, I couldn’t help but smile at her dry humor. Was there anything more alluring than a beautiful, sexy woman who could make you laugh?
“Care to make one of those two or three times with me?”
Because we’re all in the holiday mood, here’s a snippet from this year’s Dickens Holiday Romance addition, DON’T MESS WITH THE MISTLETOE, out now in print and e-copy. Books make great gifts, kids – for the romance reader on your list and you!
I love when siblings tease one another because there is such a wealth of history behind it. In this snippet, Michael’s sister Abra goes all out in the tease-department.
When his sisters walked into the diner five minutes later, he had his answer.
“I need your help,” he said without preamble as he sidled up to their table, two glasses of ice water and menus in his hands. He plopped them all down on the countertop.
“Shove in,” he commanded Sasha.
His sisters looked up at him, eyes questioning, then at one another. Abra’s left eyebrow rose to kiss her hairline, while Sasha stifled a laugh as she moved so he could sit next to her.
With the privilege of birth rank and the dry sarcasm her book fans adored, Abra spoke first. “Good morning to you, too, little brother. We’re good, thanks for asking. Both a little tired, but that’s to be expected in our ready-to-pop-states. And how are you on this fine, cold day?” She took a sip of her water.
Exasperation drilled through him. While Sasha ultimately let the laugh go, Michael’s jaw clamped down so hard his back molars whacked against one another. He’d for sure be using the bottle of Ibuprofen Amy kept in her desk sometime today.
He fisted his hands on the table then opened and flexed them a few times as he told himself to keep calm. “Listen. I’m in a bind.”
Both their teasing smiles dissolved.
“What’s wrong?” Sasha asked, at the same time Abra said, “What happened?”
“Nothing happened.” He explained about the late hours and the way things were looking back at the house. Dragging a hand through his hair the knowledge it was a month or so behind a cut just added to the list of things needing tending in his life.
“I don’t know how mom manages to run this place and keep the house looking so good. In addition to the baking she does for here, which I haven’t done, just FYI, because –hello! – I have no idea what to do and no time to do it even if I did.”
“I can help with that,” Sasha said. “I’ve got mom’s pie recipes at home. I’ll bake a few today and have Steve bring them by in the morning when he heads to the hospital.”
“Thanks, Sash.” He looked across the table at Abra.
“What?”
“Think you can stop by the house and run a load or two of laundry for me? I’m not asking you to clean the place up. I don’t want you lifting anything, but I need,” he glanced furtively around them, “stuff. I haven’t done laundry since I’ve been here and I’ve run out of everything.”
“And by everything you mean underwear?” she asked.
“Jesus, Abs. Keep your voice down, will ya?”
“You wearing repeats?” she asked, having difficulty keeping the laugh from ringing in her voice, “Or are you commando underneath those pants?”
Embarrassing him had been her full-time job when he was a teenager. Six years older, Sasha always felt she needed to look out for him as a kid. When he grew seven inches between his twelfth and thirteenth birthdays and had started towering over her, she’d decided taking him down a peg or two was her lot in life as a big sis. As adults, she still felt the need to exert her birth order status.
Heat rose up his neck at her question. The fact Julia happened to arrive at their table, her order book poised in her hand, at the same moment made him want to dissipate into a plume of mortified smoke and dissolve away. No way she hadn’t heard Abra’s question.
Finding a body in the freezer of the family deli isn’t the way Madonna San Valentino planned to start her day.
Adding insult to injury, the investigating detective is the one guy she’s never been able to forget. After seven minutes of heaven in the back seat of his car when they were teenagers, Tony Roma skipped town without so much as a thanks for the memory.
Just when Madonna thinks the present situation can’t get any worse, Tony is ordered to go undercover at the deli to ferret out a killer. Forced to work together, she vows to keep their relationship cool and professional. But with the sexy, longing looks he tosses her at every turn, Madonna’s resolve is weakening.
With Christmas drawing closer and Tony’s investigation taking an unexpected turn, Madonna is at her wit’s end. Can she really be falling for him again? And will he wind up leaving her brokenhearted and alone like the last time?
Snippet:
By now on a normal business day, I’d already have re-stocked the shelves and display cabinets, gotten the sinks and prep areas ready, and put out the filled urns, milk and cups for our regular-grab-a-cup-of-coffee-on-the-way-to-work morning customers. Since Angelo had ordered me to touch nothing, I couldn’t occupy my time with any of those ordinary tasks. Even though we weren’t opening today, I hoped we would tomorrow, so I decided to get a jump on the stock ordering. With Christmas on the horizon, I needed to ensure we were fully prepared for the holiday onslaught.
Our supply list grew larger each day, something that warmed my mercenary shopkeeper’s heart. More supplies needed meant more things were being sold, which amounted to greater – here’s the mercenary part – profits.
A cold blast of icy air smacked me in the face when I opened the walk-in refrigerator/freezer where we stored our spoilable items. The usual mounds of deli meats and cheeses, salads, and produce lined the steel shelves from floor to ceiling in the refrigerated section. I ticked each item and the amount we had on hand off on a clipboard list I’d brought in with me. Then, I moved into the freezer to see if we needed to order any of the bigger meat items. As soon as I walked into the frigid area I tripped over something sticking out from between two of the metal shelves.
I reached out and braced myself against one of the shelf posts to keep from falling flat on my face and the clipboard fell from my hand. When I stooped to pick it up and find out what I’d stumbled over, it took me a moment to realize what it was.
A sneaker.
Black and white, it looked…familiar. Like I’d seen it in a magazine or a television ad.
I tracked the shoe from the sole, up across the laces—which were dirty, knotted, and speckled with little red droplets—all the way to the tongue.
Then my gaze traveled further. Up a jeans-clad lower leg.
“What the—”
I left the clipboard on the concrete floor and moved closer to the leg. I don’t think I realized, truly realized, what it was at first.
The one worker I hadn’t been able to notify, Chico, was flat on his back, his wrists bound and folded in his lap, a frosty mask of ice covering his face and something green sticking out of his mouth. A thin boning knife, the kind my father uses to clean fish, protruded from the center of his chest. Little frozen red and white icicles covered his t-shirt.
I may not scare easily, but the amount of times in my life I’ve encountered a dead—no, make that murdered body—can be counted on the fingers of one hand and still have 5 left over. A loud gasp blew through my cold lips as I sprinted back to the door. I needed to tell the cops what I’d found.
Now.
I flew out of the freezer then yanked the industrial refrigerator door open, shot through it, and barreled, full body, into a solid wall. The wall smelled, strangely, of citrus. I would have bounced back and hit the door if the tangy-smelling behemoth hadn’t reached out and, with a grip forged in steel, imprisoned me within hands as large as the ham my mother planned to serve for Christmas dinner in a few weeks.
Trapped and terrified—who wouldn’t be after finding a dead body?—I reacted in the instinctual flight or fight way we’re programmed to during danger.
My body chose fight.
One valuable lesson being the sibling routinely charged with breaking up brotherly scuffles has taught me, is how to get out of a death hold.
In a move I’d learned out of necessity I took a step forward instead of retreating like a person being held routinely would, bent my arms at the elbows, lifted them up, and then twisted them inward. The front of my forearms collided with my captor’s and when they did I pressed outward with every ounce of force in me.
The hold broke.
Before the giant could draw breath and grab me again, I lifted my arms, gripped him by the ears and hauled his head down to meet the knee I’d raised.
A loud, guttural groan reverberated around us.
And then several things happened at once.
The orange-smelling wall of a man sputtered, “Jesus Christ, Donna,” while he held his face in his hands.
My father’s furious “Madonna Violetta,” lifted to the ceiling at the same time
Angelo Rocconova’s “Holy Shit,” competed with both of them. Another besuited man I didn’t know stood behind the three of them, but he kept his mouth shut and simply stared at the guy I’d kneed.
Confused and breathing like I’d swam the length of the East River twice, my gaze bounced from my wide-eyed and worried father to a shocked and nervous Ange and then to the bent-at-the-waist colossus in front of me.
My throat bobbed up and down and the moisture in my mouth evaporated when the hulk lifted back to his full height, his piercing and furious gaze mating with mine. As he’d stood tall I took a step backward, intent on running for the hills. The now-closed steel refrigerator door barred me from making a quick exit.
Looking up at him, my pounding heart stopped cold in my chest.
I knew those eyes.
Intimately.
When they weren’t filled with anger and pain, like they were right now, I knew how captivating they could be. The palest of blue and heavily lashed, they tilted up a tiny bit at the corners. Jealousy ramped through me. How unfair was it a man was gifted eyes like this when I’d been cursed with the most dull and boring brown color ever blended?
Light hair, a mix of natural honey and wheat husks, straight and clipped short covered his head. Shoulders spanning almost as wide as the doorframe were covered by a dark tan sports jacket, the pants a deeper hue of the same color palette.
“Donna,” Angelo said, his voice thick with fear, “why’d you attack Detective Roma?”
“I didn’t attack…wait? Detective?”
I tried to lick some moisture back into my lips but my salivary glands had gone dormant during the flight or fight response. I glanced at each of the men standing in front of me, stopping last on the one Ange had referred to as a detective.
With one hand still cupping his jaw where my knee connected, the man pierced me with his gorgeous gaze, and just like I had when I’d been seventeen and climbed into the back seat of his brand new Z8, I lost what little sanity I still had.
“Hey Donna,” Tony Roma said, shaking his head. “Long time and all. I see you’re still as sweet and mild mannered as ever.”
Ready? Here’s my cover to my next addition to the DICKENS HOLIDAY ROMANCE series, DON’T MESS WITH THE MISTLETOE….
It’s the holiday season in the tiny town of Dickens and pilot Michael Charles is home for his annual visit. His wanderlust has him itching to get back up in the skies as soon as possible, especially since he’s got a full schedule of rich and famous clients waiting to be transported to warm, exotic locales for the winter.
When his heavily pregnant sisters present him with a plan to give their workaholic mother some time off from managing the family diner, he balks. But one look at how tired the woman who took him into her home and heart is, and Michael agrees to run Dorrit’s Diner for a month so Amy Charles can get some well-deserved rest.
He’ll be back in the skies by the New Year.
The diner staff functions like a well-oiled machine, most of them long-term employees. The exception is new waitress Julia Maryland. The beautiful blonde has a past filled with heartache, a charming six-year-old daughter, and a smile Michael could spend the day getting lost in. But starting a relationship with her wouldn’t be wise because his visit is temporary and Julia seems like a permanent kind of girl.
When a family emergency requires him to rethink and reassess his life, Michael wonders if it’s time he becomes a permanent kind of man.
“Blake asleep?” he asked, shucking his hands in his pockets while she went about preparing her tea.
“Finally. She conned me into reading three stories tonight instead of our typical two.” Shaking her head, she placed the teakettle on the stove and turned on the burner. “She’s always trying to go to sleep later than she should. If I allowed it every night, she’d be a bear the next day.”
“I used to do that to Amy and Andy. One more story and I swear I’ll go to sleep. Then, oh, but wait, how about a glass of water? Then the inevitable, now I’ve got to go to the bathroom move. All just so I wouldn’t have to go to sleep before my sisters.”
“I can see you were a little manipulator like Blake.”
He shook his head. “I prefer to think of it as honing my negotiation skills at a young age.”
His heart sure was getting a workout tonight because when she laughed, free and girlishly, his stuttered again.
“In reality it was because I was afraid I’d wake up the next morning and they’d be gone.”
Why the hell had he told her that?
Michael had never shared with anyone, least of all his parents, how much going to sleep every night terrified him. Up until the time he’d overheard Andy tell Amy they’d caught the man who’d murdered his mother, he’d lived in fear the mean man would come after him and kill his adoptive parents, too.
Irrational? Of course it was. But to a small boy whose world had been changed forever in a second, it was all too real.
Julia’s face softened as she stared across at him. Moisture formed in the outer corner of her eyes as she dropped her gaze.
“Don’t do that,” he said, pushing off the wall and coming to her. “I didn’t say that to make you feel sorry for me or anything, I really didn’t.”
“Of course not,” she said immediately. “I didn’t think you had. And I can feel sorry for the little boy you were, you know. It’s a natural reaction.”
His sigh was long and tired. “Still. I don’t know why I told you that.” He raked his hands down his face. “Let’s forget I did, okay? I just got off the phone with Sasha,” he said, changing the subject and hoping she wouldn’t press him. “They’re coming back tomorrow, so I need to get going on the present shopping.”
He held his breath, waiting for her reply. When she nodded, then poured the heated water into her mug, his anxiety eased.
Intrigued? You can preorder the ecopy here: AMAZON
ANNNNNNNNNNNNDDDD…… just because I can, I’ve put FIXING CHRISTMAS and SASHA’S SECRET SANTA on sale for 99cents in anticipation of DON’T MESS WITH THE MISTLETOE going live. SO if you haven’t read those two yet ( you really should!!LOL), now is your chance because once DMWTM goes live, the price on these two goes back to normal.
Christmas has never filled writer Abra Charles with undiluted pleasure. If you’d been left on a doorstep on Christmas Eve morning, you might have a few issues with the holiday as well.
Abra’s avoided her hometown of Dickens for the past twenty Christmas seasons, but now she’s returned in an attempt to get her writing mojo back. Twice-divorced and with her third engagement ending in heartbreak, anger, and blackmail, Abra is now six months behind on submitting her current book. She hopes renting Copperfield House and immersing herself in solitude will cure her writer’s block and get her life back on track. The house she rents isn’t helping her achieve her goal, though, as one thing after another breaks, collapses, or floods.
Colton Bree, Dickens’ very own Mr. FixIt, can’t help but wonder if the new resident of Copperfield House is cursed. After being called to repair a broken window, he’s then needed to fix an exploding coffeepot, an overrunning toilet, and a washing machine that has a mind of its own. Bree doesn’t mind all the unexpected repair jobs, though, because the sexy renter is something to look at despite being a little neurotic and a whole lot of snarky.
Can Abra get her book done with all the distractions and craziness of her life, the biggest distraction being the flannelled hunk with the bedroom eyes and scowling yet oh-so-kissable mouth? Or will Dickens’ Mr FixIt have to step in and save the day and in so doing, fix Christmas for Abra forever?
After a terrifying incident derails Sasha Charles’ career and confidence, she moves back to her hometown of Dickens to heal, reorganize, and start over.
The only problem? The paralyzing panic attacks that plague her whenever she thinks about going back to nursing. Sasha is mentally, and emotionally stuck, and has no idea how to move forward.
Steve Caldwell is the new Director of Services at Dickens Memorial Hospital. After witnessing her save the life of a local resident in Dorrit’s Diner, he knows Sasha would be perfect for the new trauma center he’s planning. When she refuses his job offer outright, he sets out to change her mind.
But Sasha has thick, protective walls erected around her so Steve must first break through them. With patience and kindness, he does. As the two grow closer, each begin to have second thoughts on what their futures should look like, until idle, small town gossip threatens to derail their budding relationship.
With the imminent arrival of Christmas, will Steve be able to convince Sasha he has her best interests at heart?
Since Dylan just released on Monday, I’m choosing him.
“She’s a sweetie,” his soon-to-be-sister-in-law whispered in his ear. “But fragile. Take care with her.”
Dylan nodded again.
As soon as the door closed behind them, he turned back around to Harper. Her color was still off, and she looked like she hadn’t slept for a week. A defeated stance embraced her body in the stooped shoulders and chest-hugging head. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and love away all the horror she’d endured for the past day. Hell, the past thirty-plus years.
Before he did, he had to make sure she’d freely receive it. The way she’d so easily walked away from him in the bedroom had been a hit to his ego, and he didn’t want a repeat of that feeling.
He wanted Harper. Had since the moment he’d bumped into her and she’d tossed him a pissed-off glare. And what the hell did that say about him, he wondered, that he found snarky and annoyed so alluring?
“Your younger brother is very…”
“Annoying? Obnoxious? A pain in the ass?”
He grew pleased when a small smile bloomed on her face at his joking, since that had been his intention.
“I was going to say knowledgeable about being poisoned. I don’t want to be nosy, but has he been?”
“No. Not like you were. Aiden had a brain tumor as a kid. Spent a great deal of time in the hospital having all sorts of meds shot into his system. He got pretty smart about how to ward off any side effects like dehydration, nausea. Vomiting.”
“Oh, dear Lord, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
He shrugged. His brother’s diagnosis had hit the family hard when it came. But his mother was a natural warrior and vowed nothing, not even a pesky tumor, was going to take one of her children away from her.
“He’s fine now. As soon as the tumor was removed and he got on a good medical regimen, he was basically cured. Every now and then, though, he’s hit with a killer migraine, especially if he doesn’t drink a good amount of water every day. So he’s being truthful when he says you should drink and flush your system. Bronte is his service dog, by the way. She can detect a migraine aura starting before Aiden can and allow him to treat it before it gets incapacitating.”
She nodded, said, “Wow,” and then took a large gulp of the water.
“I don’t know about you, but even though it’s almost one in the morning, I could eat something.” He turned away so she wouldn’t see him smile. “It’s been a long time since my last meal. You hungry?”
Today’s snippet comes from the 9.18.2023 release of A PRIDE OF BROTHERS: DYLAN, the third book in the POB series.
As the name implies, Dylan Keane is front and center in this one. A cyberspecialist/bodyguard/hacker, Dylan has been hired to suss out a corporate thief. He centers on a dream team member named Harper Vale. Here’s Harper’s impression of Dylan:
“Guys like you always have an agenda.”
“Guys like me?”
She lifted a shoulder, then a hand in a careless wave, slicing the air. “Good-looking, likable. The kind who only has to smile to make a girl feel like she’s the queen of the world. Guys like you always have ulterior motives when it comes to me, so let’s get to it and forget all the schmoozing.”
She counted to ten while he simply gaped at her. She figured the insults alone would make him leave her to her desired solitude. Her dismissive attitude would certainly add to the swiftness with which he’d go.
After she got to ten, she took a breath, astounded he still sat across from her. Then, something happened that she’d never counted on: he smiled. Not the full wattage aren’t-I-just-the-hottest-thing-you’ve-ever-seen smile he’d tossed her a few minutes ago. No, this one was real. She’d bet next week’s pay on it. And, holy crap, it was more devastating and…alluring, than anything she’d seen prior.
Her face scorched with heat at his gentle perusal. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He tilted his head to the left and tucked his cheek between his teeth. “You think I’m good-looking?” he asked in a voice so filled with conceit she couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her.
When his grin broadened, showing off the second mortgage his parents probably took out to pay for his perfect orthodontia, something shifted low in her belly, something she hadn’t felt in quite some time: arousal.
“Do you own a mirror?” she asked.
He nodded. “Couple.”
“Well, then.” She sliced her hand in the air again in a there-you-have-it gesture.
It’s hard to trust when you’re the daughter of a fallen financial scion who bilked people out of billions. Nell’s done everything in her power to keep away from men who see her as their ticket to fortune and fame. All she wants to do is run her ultra-successful business, HELPFUL HUNKS, in peace. But it wouldn’t hurt to find a guy who doesn’t know a thing about her father’s felonious past; one she can give her heart to and trust it won’t come back to her battered, bruised, and broken.
Is Charlie Churchill that guy? On the surface he seems perfect, all polished manners and quiet mirth. Nell’s convinced he knows nothing about her, other than she likes superhero movies and views junk food as a food group.
Can she trust him to be what he appears to be? Or is he just pretending?
For Nell, trust is everything in life…and in love.
SNIPPET…
That old expression if you want something done, give it to a busy person describes my life to perfection.
I was already late for the two-hour lecture I’d agreed to give at Columbia Business School. And I say agreed with my tongue in my cheek.
When Dean Arnold Dietrichson, an old friend of my mother’s from her cotillion days, emailed and asked me to fill in for a professor who’d requested time off to visit a sick parent, I ignored the missive. And the two follow-ups he’d then sent. When he called me directly, I couldn’t come up with an excuse fast or truthful enough to squeak out of it. Public speaking is the last in a long laundry list of things I never want to do. Having my fingernails removed one by one without anesthesia and shaving my head supersede public speaking, so that tells you how much I didn’t want to do what I was about to do.
A scheduling issue had disrupted my afternoon and I found myself two men short for a moving job I’d booked weeks ago for an extremely influential client. It took me two and a half hours, seven pleading phone calls, the promise of an extra day off, plus time and half for the two guys who finally agreed to come in. I toyed with the idea to add sexual favors to the asking price if no one agreed.
That would have been an empty promise, but desperate times…you know?
My business, Helpful Hunks, rents gorgeous twenty and thirty-something between-jobs male actors and models by the hour to do all the things you can’t—or don’t want to—do.
Are you a woman living on your own and need shelving put up but don’t know the business end of a hammer from a screwdriver? Call me. Are you relocating from one small New York apartment to another and don’t want to pay the exorbitant cost a commercial moving business charges to move the meager stuff you own? Check out my website. Need heavy furniture rearranged? Boxes brought in from storage? Someone to help relocate mom’s belongings from her home to her new assisted care facility? Send me an email.
The idea for the business came to me in college. I was my first client. At a spit above five foot, and with a mother residing in a psych facility and a father who was a guest of the state, I had no one to help me lug all my stuff into the dorm room I’d be living in for the next four years.
When a group of upperclassmen who were involved in a project offered to help me in order to gain service points for their frat house, I readily agreed. Flirty, fit, and hunky-hot, the guys got all my crap moved in one one-hundredth of the time it would have taken me on my own. While I watched them heft and heave my trunks, luggage, books, and bed linens, a little idea wormed its way into my entrepreneurial brain.
Despite my father’s mortifying public trial and his subsequent incarceration, Dennison Newbery’s business acumen-laced DNA flowed through me.
Before sophomore year began, I’d already hired a few classmates over the summer break to aid anyone who needed help moving into dorms and student housing. For a nominal fee, of course. My profits that year paid for the next two years of my education.
Business school, a business loan, and a solid marketing plan after I graduated, and here I was.
Hotshot movie director Wilton June is in pre-production for a new movie. The moment he sees Maison Toussaint he decides it’s the perfect setting for the film and wants to rent it. The one stumbling block? The owner isn’t sure she can let her ancestral home be used in a movie.
Botanist Jerica Toussaint needs cash – a lot of it – to keep her home up to code and her herbal healing business alive. June’s financial offer is oh-so-tempting, as is the director himself. But the house has a secret Jerica’s guarded her entire life. Can she, in good conscience, rent it to a man who may expose it?
Convincing Jerica to trust him with her home – and her secret – is no easy feat and after a time Will realizes he needs to convince her to trust him with one more thing: her heart.
SNIPPET…
“Thanks for setting this up,” Will told Genevieve the following morning when he arrived at her office.
Looking at him with skeptical eyes, she nodded and accepted his handshake. A man who could have been her twin in the looks department stood to her right wearing a three thousand dollar suit and if Will wasn’t mistaken, the remnants of a rough day or two. Railroad track red lines crisscrossed in the whites of his eyes and the stubble on his jaw was at either an attempt to grow a beard, or he hadn’t had the compunction to shave for a while. Before Will could be introduced, the guy tugged a handkerchief from his pocket, muttered a choked, “Excuse me,” and then blew his nose twice.
“Sorry,” he said, swiping at his nose with the swatch of white. “Allergy season. Gavin Gordon.”
Will’s eyes ping-ponged between the realtor and this man.
As if hearing the unasked question, he said, “I’m her brother.” He hitched a finger toward Genevieve.
“He’s also my lawyer,” a new voice said from behind him.
One of the most beautiful women Will had ever seen stood in the doorway.
No, beautiful was too tame a word. Striking and exotic were much more appropriate.
Hair the color of a raven’s feathers at midnight – dark and sleek and shiny – fell to below her waist in a mass of curls he knew instinctively were natural. Eyes the color of tempered chocolate regarded him from across the room. The corners were tipped upward in a delicate line, her brows, the twin color to her hair, two perfect arched wings above her eyes. High cheekbones any number of actresses he knew would have killed for covered unlined skin, rosy from the Fall winds blowing about outside. The tiny indent under her lips, bifurcating her chin was the sexiest thing he’d seen on a woman in… forever.
The vision came into the room, nodded at the realtor, then moved to hug the lawyer. For an insane instant, Will grew jealous of the contact between the two of them.
“Thanks for coming down, Gav.”
“Anything for you, babe.”
“Let’s get started,” Genevieve said. Indicating a chair behind the round office table, she said, “Mr. June?”
When all of them were seated – Will on one side of the table and the three of them across from him like opposing counsel in a courtroom – he said to the homeowner, “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me. I understand you have a few questions?”
She nodded, tossed a quick glance at the lawyer, then leaned her elbows forward on the table and folded her hands together.
When she dragged in a breath heavy with nerves, Will had the sudden urge to reach across the table, squeeze her hand and offer some kind of comfort.
“I understand you want to film a movie in the house.”
He nodded.
“That’s an unusual request. Don’t you usually film in a studio or on a sound stage?”
“I could, but I’d have to construct a prop house. Your home is absolutely perfect for the storyline of the film and it’s already standing. It would be cheaper in the long run to use an already viable structure.”
“What about my house makes it absolutely perfect, to use your words? Ms. Gordon told me you looked at six other properties that are all similar to mine. Surely any one of them would suit your… needs.”
Will couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a grown woman blush. Her cheeks turned apple-red as she spoke and he’d be damned if it wasn’t the most alluring thing he’d ever seen on a woman.
“True, but when I saw your house it just spoke to me. Screamed to me, in fact,” he said, grinning.
“Sc-screamed?” Jerica swallowed and a fine tremor started in her folded hands. “What do you mean… screamed?”
Will grinned and leaned back in his chair. “The movie I’m set to make is a modern-day love story about two people who try to solve a one-hundred-year-old murder mystery that occurred in the house where the heroine lives. Your house is perfect for the time period, aside from being huge, which is another plus, because of the size of my film equipment. After I walked through it with Ms. Gordon yesterday and got the lay of the land and the room sizes, I’m more convinced than ever it’s the perfect house for my filming needs.”
Her shoulders dropped down from where they’d been hugging her ears. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why his explanation calmed her nerves, but the response encouraged him. Leaning forward, he told her, “I know it’s a huge intrusion to have people and gear in your home, but I can assure you, we’re all very professional. And my crew is only five people plus me. And the actors, or course. I have a very well-oiled machine of people I trust and who are tops in their fields. I promise nothing will get broken or damaged, and we won’t move a thing unless we ask first.”
She tossed a quick glance at the lawyer who caught the move and nodded.
“Should Miss Toussaint agree to your filming in the house – and that’s still a big if – we would ask you to sign a separate waiver stating you’ll take full responsibility for the costs of any damage.”
“Not a problem,” Will said.
“Now, about the use-of-location contract,” Gavin said, taking a stack of papers from a briefcase that materialized at his feet. “The fee mentioned seems a little low since the house will not only be inhabited by you as a resident but your film crew as well—”
“The crew stays off-site. I’ll be the only one actually living in the house at the time of filming.”
“Be that as it may, the recompense paid to Ms. Toussaint should be higher. After all, the film will be seen, potentially, by a large audience.”
“That’s always the hope.” Will grinned.
“People who may actually want to come and see where the movie was filmed. You can see where this may pose a problem with security for Ms. Toussaint. A higher fee would enable her to employ security if needed. This is, after all, her home. We want to ensure her safety.”
Will’s gaze raked over Jerica Toussaint’s face. “Of course. What price were you thinking.”
When he named an amount twenty-five percent higher than the offer, Will hid his surprise, then did a quick mental math shuffle. He could swing the payment increase if he cut the budget a bit somewhere else.
“Okay. Consider it done.”
Surprise galloped around the table, but it was Jerica Toussaint’s wide-eyed face Will settled on.
“Anything else?” he asked after noting the glances between lawyer and client.
Genevive spoke up for the first time. “The sixth-month rent clause is ironclad. If you decide to leave, for whatever reason, before the lease expires, you won’t be issued a refund.”
“Understood. And I’m prepared to write you a check for the full amount today, as soon as you agree to sign the lease,” he told Jerica.
When she took a corner of her mouth between her teeth, that sexy little dent in her chin winked at him. In a hot second, the lower half of his body went on high alert and he was thankful the desk hid him from the waist down.
She’s a wealthy socialite who survived an abusive marriage. He’s a hardworking guy raising his son and caring for his widowed father. They come from different worlds, but it’s said…opposites attract. Can they find the balance between their two lifestyles to make their love work? Or will their differences tear them apart?
Life and love are a balancing act.
ENJOY….
Joe enveloped me in a full-body hug, told me he enjoyed meeting and chatting with me, then made me promise I wouldn’t be “a stranger.” I assured him I wouldn’t.
Once we were outside the building, Derek said, “He liked you.”
Cockily, I replied, “Of course he did. What’s not to like?”
He grinned, said, “Not a damn thing,” then swooped me into his arms and pulled me against him. “I wanted to do this in the kitchen but…David.” He shook his head.
I had a pretty good idea what he meant, but asked anyway, “Do what?” while I leaned into his hard body and wrapped my hands around his waist.
With the half grin that made me lose the will to stand upright, he nuzzled the side of my nose with his own. “This.”
Soft and sweet, a simple swipe of his mouth against mine, the kiss was as chaste as could be.
Why I went numb from my knees downward was inexplicable, then. My grip around his waist tightened as I fell into his body for support to keep upright.
A deep moan welled up from him, a soul-tugging sigh with it, and he deepened the kiss as he dipped me backward over his arm.
I held on for dear life.
Okay, that, and because he felt so damn good. I’d have been a fool not to enjoy all the hard, lean muscle pressing against me now, wouldn’t I?
Mr. and Mrs. Doubletree of the Manhattan Doubletrees didn’t raise a fool.
“I’ve wanted to do this,” he whispered against my cheek, “ever since that day at the women’s center.”
I shifted until his lips were against my temple. “Why?”
“You mean aside from the way my heart rate kicks up whenever I look at you?”
Pleasure rippled through me.
“When you told me about being recently divorced you looked so…lost and fragile.”
A caustic laugh barked from me. “Two words no one has ever used to describe me are lost and fragile.”
He pulled back and cupped my cheeks. Kindness filled his eyes and I got lost in them. “I think you do a good job of hiding it, but you’ve been hurt. Deeply hurt.”
I rolled a shoulder. “No divorce is ever really amicable.”
Especially when your testimony puts your ex behind bars.
“Some hurt is expected,” I added.
He nodded. “All I wanted to do was pull you into my arms and kiss all the bad stuff away.”
For some reason I didn’t want him to know how his words touched me. My experience with my ex-husband had made me hyper-cautious and unwilling to share any weakness for fear it would be exploited. So, I fell back on past behavior and gave him an old, snarky Phil response to mask the emotions running rampant through me.
“I think that’s your medical brain talking. You see someone you think is hurting and you want to heal them, kiss it and make it all better.”
His grin grew slowly from one cheek to the other and I swear on Grannie Charlotte’s forty-inch string pearls I never wanted to look away.
“Well, the kissing part is true,” he said, bussing the tip of my nose. “But the reason behind it has nothing to do with the medical part of my brain. It has nothing to do with any part of my…brain.”
Peggy Jaeger, Author 