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:
And because of that review, the book is nominated for the illustrious BOOK OF THE MONTH honor! Now, I’m telling you this because I need your vote. The contest is open from 10/1-2 so it’s just 2 days. Voting closes at midnight on Monday, so if you’re feeling generous, please click on this link and vote for me. You have to hit the little bubble next to the vote, then hit the VOTE word/icon! Here’s the link: LASR
Thanks, oodles. You can’t know how much I appreciate all the love and support!
As a reader, I know that some books leave you with a book hangover or the notion you wish you could go re-read it again for the very first time.
This book did both those to me – and I wrote it!!
I think Harper and Dylan are my favorite love match so far. And I know you’re not supposed to pick favorites among your kids, but…
This little gem releases on Monday, 9.18, and I just put so much of my heart and soul into writing it. I was penning it at the time I was going through a huge upheaval in my life this past year and just being able to escape into the lives of Harper and Dylan helped me barrel through that tumultuous time.
I truly hope if you read the book you enjoy their journey to their HEA as much as I did writing it for them.
Cyber Security specialist Dylan Keene is working undercover to suss out a corporate thief. The client wants answers – yesterday – and Dylan’s getting close. When he zeros in on coding expert Harper Vale, he thinks he’s found his mole and sets out to prove it.
Harper has a reputation as a coding savant and an introvert. As a woman competing in a male-dominated industry, Harper doesn’t make waves. Dylan’s interest in her is flattering, but after she’s implicated in the theft of the company’s protected software, she begins to doubt everything he’s told her.
When a series of potentially deadly accidents occur, all surrounding Harper, Dylan starts to wonder if she truly is guilty, or being made to take the fall. One thing is certain, though. The more time the two of them spend together, the more Dylan realizes he’s the one who’s falling – for Harper.
He slid his free hand into hers so he held both of them. “I hope you had a good time today.”
“I did. Surprisingly.”
He winced and winked an eye closed. “Ouch.”
“Oh, God, no. That’s not what I meant.”
Her cheeks turned five shades darker than the rest of her face.
“I meant I didn’t think tossing an ax around or beating up on inanimate objects was going to be fun, but it was. Really fun. Thank you for taking me. I’ve lived in this area for a while and never knew that place existed.”
Her nerves were adorable, another facet of her personality he shouldn’t be thinking about, because when he did it solidified he really wanted to kiss her.
Like, kiss-her-socks-off kiss her.
He nodded, then squeezed her hands. “Well, I’ve gotta head out. My brother gets testy when he’s kept waiting.” He shook his head and blew out a breath filled with dramatic exasperation.
When she grinned up at him, the free and easy laughter in her eyes warming his soul, he thought, what the hell, and let go of her hands to cup her chin.
The soft sigh of surprise that shot from her was almost his undoing. Leisurely, he rubbed her rosy cheeks with his thumbs as he watched her pupils dilate in the afternoon sun.
“Just for the record,” he murmured as he brought his head down, “I had fun today, too. More than I’ve had in a long, long time.”
And the funny thing was it was the truth.
Right before his lips touched hers, the notion to pull back and retreat from this madness blew into the front of his mind and was instantly kicked to the curb.
He knew he was playing a dangerous game, that one of them was sure to wind up hurt. But right now, with this gorgeous, fascinating, enigma of a woman standing toe to toe with him and looking for all the world like she was on board with the idea of kissing him back, he simply didn’t give a shit.
The moment his lips touched hers he knew a simple kiss would never be enough.
While his thumbs continued caressing her smooth, silky cheeks, Dylan let himself enjoy the delicate flash of desire he felt push from her.
If pressed before this moment, he would have admitted that while he liked kissing a woman and exploring all the ways he could stoke a flame of lust, what it ultimately led to was always more preferable.
But right now? That thought went out the proverbial window, because this simple kiss was more exciting, more pleasurable, more downright erotic than any other he’d ever given or received. He wanted to kiss her straight up the steps of her building, through her apartment door, and then in every room where she lived.
He’d thought her skin was soft, but her mouth, warm and responsive, was by far the softest thing he’d ever touched. He took a step closer, willing his hands to remain on her cheeks lest they’d drop and haul her flat against them.
The feel of Harper’s hands resting on his chest was twenty shades of delicious. She had to feel his heart banging against his ribs; had to know how excited he was. When she opened her mouth, the intoxicating taste of her drifting into him assured him he had to stop this madness, when all he wanted to do was…plunder.
On a sigh, he pulled back.
Her eyes, half closed and heavy-lidded told him she was as moved by the kiss as he was.
Slowly, he slid his hands from her face, hating he was no longer touching her.
The overpowering emotions careening through him made him nervous, something he never was with a woman. He cleared his throat and searched for something to say that didn’t sound lame or juvenile.
Harper opened her eyes fully, surprise jumping through them as she stared up at him.
Yeah, I know how ya feel, babe. Kinda shocked me, too.
Dylan cleared his throat. “Thanks again for coming with me today.”
Harper Vale is my kind of woman and heroine: smart, snarky, doesn’t suffer fools, introverted, and has a dream.
Here’s a little insight into what happens after she’s fired…
In the elevator, the guard demanded her badge and security code card, which she handed over without a word into his meaty outstretched hand. Harper was too furious to feel embarrassed when the questioning stares and raised eyebrow glances of co-workers shot at her as she was escorted through the lobby and out the front doors. She was met at the entrance by another guard holding her backpack and told it contained everything in her desk of a personal nature, including her bike helmet.
The pack was unzipped, indicating they’d searched through it. A sense of violation shot through her and the anger swimming inside her intensified.
“Don’t try to come back into the building,” the Neanderthal said. “You’ll be stopped, detained, and handed over to the police for trespassing.”
“Don’t worry, Dickhead,” she said, her voice carrying clearly into the lobby. “I have no intention of ever coming back here.”
He tossed her a speaking glance and it took every ounce of will she could summon not to shoot him a middle finger salute as he strode back into the building on legs ridiculously too large for his pants.
Seething, she made her way to the bike rack and slipped her helmet on. After searching her backpack she found her wallet, phone, house keys, an emergency bike repair kit, and an old pack of peppermints, everything she typically carried with her. She’d never brought any pictures or other personal items into her workspace to clutter it and make it homey. To her, it was merely a space to work.
Ten years, she muttered, as she wove her bike through traffic. Ten years of her life devoted to a company that never appreciated her and now accused her of being a thief.
Lunch hour traffic was unusually thick and it took her an extra half hour of zipping in and out of traffic before she made it safely to her apartment. Throughout the trek, her anger grew to a boiling point.
She wanted to hit something. Hard.
Paying for a session at SCHMASH blew into her mind but was quickly discarded. She’d been fired which meant her income was now gone.
Fired.
How in the world had this happened? She’d done nothing—certainly never stolen from him. Or anyone.
And where had that bank account with her social security number attached to it come from?
If she possessed fifty thousand available dollars it certainly wouldn’t have been in a bank in another country. She’d have invested it in her project, not socked it away on foreign soil.
Someone had set her up. That was the only explanation. Someone had stolen something from Kirkpatrick, sold it, and made it look like she was responsible.
Why? Who the hell hated her so much?
She may not be best friends with anyone at K.I. but she’d certainly never done anything to warrant this.
As she pulled her bike off the elevator, Ginger’s door flew open.
“Oh, Harper. I thought you might be the delivery person. I’m waiting for my new fruit of the month delivery. Whatever are you doing home in the middle of a workday?”
Nerves raw and emotions in chaos, the last thing Harper wanted was to get into a gabfest with her nosy, however nice, neighbor.
“Just taking some personal time,” she said, shoving her bike through her apartment door. With a forced smile, she added, “I’ve got a bunch of vacation time saved and if I don’t use it I lose it.”
Ginger’s expression told Harper if given the slightest indication she wanted company, the woman would be in her place in a heartbeat.
“Oh, well, enjoy the afternoon, then, dear. I’m off to pack for a visit with one of my sons for a few days.”
“Enjoy.”
“You as well.”
She shut herself into her apartment, fell back against the closed door after slamming it against the stuck portion, then slid down it to the floor. The tears she’d been valiantly holding back were finally allowed to rain down her cheeks.
Harper dropped her head against her knees and let them free.
~~Intrigued? Preorder here: Amazon Watch the trailer here: You tube
Add it to your GOODREADS WANT TO READ LIST here: goodreads
I love Sundays for so many reasons, but right now it’s because on Sundays new chapters in my interactive game UNDER HIS PROTECTION drop into the romance gaming world. The game is based on my award-winning romantic suspense book from The WILD ROSE PRESS, A PRIDE OF BROTHERS: RICK
Have you been following along? I have and it’s my story, hee hee. But the gamer makers have changed some aspects so It’s fun to see where they take the characters. They change the physical characteristics of the characters, too, which is fun for me. You can choose what you want the h/h to look like, wear, say, and do.
If you’re a gamer – or even if you’re just curious about the whole thing – go to the Chapters game app on your phone, upload the app for free and find my story.
You all know by now I Iove my Wild Rose Press sistahs and I love introducing you all to new writers I think you’ll enjoy. Today is no exception to that premise.
Meet Susie Black. Susie is new to the Rose Garden and her debut cozy humorous mystery, DEATH BY SAMPLE SIZE is out now and getting fab reviews. Susie was kind enough to stop by recently, answer my grilling questions, and then we discussed her beloved grandmother and a forgotten art: letter writing. She also gave me a little excerpt to share from her book and I think you’ll agree that once you read it, you’ll want to get this book!
First, here’s our interview:
Susie Black: The Writer Questions
What drives you to write?
Coming from a sales background, I am a student of human nature, a people watcher, and a born storyteller. During the course of my ladies’ apparel sales career, I have kept a daily journal that chronicles the quirky, interesting, and sometimes challenging characters I come in contact with, as well as the crazy situations I’ve gotten myself into and out of. My journal is the foundation of all I write.
What genre(s) of Romance do your write, and why?
I actually write in the humorous cozy mystery genre, but unrequited or ill-fated romance is usually one of the motives for the murder in my plots.
What genre(s) of Romance do you read, and why?
I read romantic mysteries. I lean towards whodunits, but like them spiced up with some romance that usually drives the plot.
What’s your writing schedule? Do you write every day?
Honestly, I do not have a writing schedule. If I had only specific days and hours when I could write, then I would. I set my own schedules and find that writing when the urge to write hits instead of checking the calendar or clock to see if it is writing time, makes for a writing atmosphere that is much more creativefor me.
Give us a glimpse of the surroundings where you write. Separate room? In the kitchen? At the dining room table?
Most of the time I write in my office at my computer adjacent to a window that overlooks a golf course. I have also been known to write on my laptop while sitting on the deck of my houseboat.
6. Are you the kind of writer who needs total quiet to compose, or are you able to filter out the typical sounds of the day and use your tunnel-vision?
I am used to white noise around the house, so I am able to filter out the typical sounds of the day. Also, I have a hearing problem, so in this case, it is a benefit as I simply do not hear a lot of noise.
Do you listen to music while you write, and if so, what kind? If not, why not?
It depends. If I am working on a chapter that I have a good idea of how to write, then I listen to either cool jazz or oldies in the background. If I am working on a new section or one that is challenging, then no, I prefer as few distractions as possible, so no music for me to sing along to.
How did you come up with the plotline/idea for your current WIP?
The plotline/idea for my current WIP came from an incident I had with an unscrupulous buyer that I used poetic license to take to a much more dramatic level.
Which comes first for you – character or plot? And why?
I am a people person, so for me, the characters always come first. My characters always drive the plot, never the reverse.
What 3 words describe you, the writer?
Funny. Honest. Passionate.
Susie, the Gal…
Tell us one unusual thing about yourself – not related to writing!
I eat each item on the plate separately and completely before I go to the next item and I eat my least favorite item on the plate first.
Who was your first love and what age were you?
My first love was Dean Schneider. We were five years old.
If you could relive one day, which one would it be? Think GROUNDHOG DAY, the movie for this one – you’ll have to live it over and over and….
My Wedding Day
What’s one thing you love about your significant other?
He makes me laugh every, single day.
If you had to give up one necessary-can’t-live-without-it item, what would it be?
My car
What three words describe you, the person? Honorable, Trustworthy, Sassy
If you could sing a song with Jimmy Fallon, what would it be?
“I won’t grow up” from Peter Pan
If you could hang out with any literary character from any book penned at any time line, who would it by, why, and what would you do together?
Nancy Drew because she got me interested in mysteries. We would solve a mystery together.
Bonus round
I love the Actor’s Studio show on Bravo, so this is my version of it:
Favorite sound: Waves breaking on the seashore
Least favorite sound: Fingernail scratches across a chalkboard
Best song every written: People, by Barbra Streisand
Worst song ever written: Woolly Bully by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs
Favorite actor and actress: Favorite actor: Jack Lemon Favorite Actress: Meryl Streep
Who would you want to be for 1 day and why? ( It can be anyone living or dead): Fearless Golda Meir because she was one of the first female heads of state in a major country and did what was necessary to defend Israel.
What turns you on? Love
What turns you off? Narrow minds
Give me the worst 5 words ever heard on a first date ( here’s mine: “Is that your real hair?”): “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to be at work really early tomorrow.”
What’s your version of a perfect day? My husband, son, and I are together enjoying one another’s company.
And now, A little on that forgotten letter-writing art form:
In this modern time of smart phones that do almost everything including talking for you, it is hard to believe, but back in the early days, telephones were difficult to use, often unreliable, and expensive to own. Not every family, including mine, could afford the luxury of having one.
Like many families, once my Nana’s siblings grew up and left home, they scattered across the country. Nana knew the importance of keeping her family together no matter how many miles separated them. Since a phone was not an option, as the oldest child, Nana was chosen to write letters to family members living far from home. With the same level of dedication as the postman; come rain, sleet, or snow, war or peace, prosperous times or the depths of a national depression, my blind-as-a bat without her coke bottle-thick glasses Nana sat every Monday night at her dining room table and wrote a letter to each of her siblings. Her letters sewed the thread that kept our close-knit tribe connected.
When I was in my sophomore year of college my family moved from Los Angeles to Miami. Despite their valiant attempts to persuade me to join them, I wasn’t interested in relocating to “God’s waiting room,” and remained out west. The good news was that Nana added me to her list of weekly letter-writing recipients. Lonesome for my family, Nana’s weekly letter was an eagerly-anticipated lifeline to my family’s heart and soul. For all of us, that letter was the glue that kept our family bound together no matter how far from home one of us wandered.
The designated town crier, Nana’s letters were more like a newsletter. A date with her friends at the movies? After reading her letter, I was in the seat next to her. She reported who went, what they wore, if they were late or early; where they sat, if they had a snack, what the snack was, editorials on how much the snacks and the movie tickets cost, and every detail of the movie that was so complete, the recipient of her letter could write a decent review based on Nana’s commentary. If she described what an attendee was wearing, I could close my eyes and picture the outfit perfectly. Her descriptions were so detailed and rich, that if she was describing a meal, I could smell the wafting aroma and taste the food.
Out of sentimentality or maybe a sixth sense that someday I’d need them, I kept every one of those letters. Like Nana, they were strong-willed and hearty; surviving dogs, a child, countless moves, several major earthquakes and a devastating house fire. I had no formal creative writing training when I decided to write my first manuscript. I had a story to tell, but no clue how to tell it. I instinctively pulled the carefully wrapped packets of letters out of the storage box and re-read every one of them. I could picture Nana at the dining room table writing the letters. I heard her voice inside my head speaking to me. My long-gone, full-service Nana had given me all the tools I needed. I re-packed the letters, started to write, and thanks to Nana, I never stopped.
In a detached society that values cheaper and faster, we are insulated from direct contact with one another more each day. E-mail and texting replaced a phone call, and Zoom is the new version of a face to face meeting. We don’t need brick and mortar to build walls anymore. Modern technology has certainly had an impact on society mores and improved many aspects of our lives. Regrettably, technology was also a death knell for several means of personalized communication. Nana would have been horrified that a quaint, old fashioned skill like letter-writing disappeared. My debut humorous cozy mystery Death by Sample Size is out now. Thanks to Nana, my story has been told in a distinctive voice that comes through loud and clear.
Peggy here: I lovelovelove writing letters – and receiving them!!
Everyone wanted her dead…but who actually killed her?
The last thing swimwear sales exec Holly Schlivnik expected was to discover ruthless buying office big wig Bunny Frank’s corpse trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey with a bikini stuffed down her throat. When Holly’s colleague is arrested for Bunny’s murder, the wise-cracking, irreverent amateur sleuth jumps into action to find the real killer. Nothing turns out the way Holly thinks it will as she matches wits with a wily killer hellbent on revenge.
When the elevator doors opened, I had to stop myself short not to step on her. There was Bunny Frank-the buying office big shot-lying diagonally across the car. Her legs were splayed out and her back was propped against the corner. Her sightless eyes were wide open and her arms reached out in a come-to-me baby pose. She was trussed up with shipping tape like a dressed Thanksgiving turkey ready for the oven with a bikini stuffed in her mouth. A Gotham Swimwear hangtag drooped off her lower lip like a toe tag gone lost. Naturally, I burst out laughing.
Before you label me incredibly weird or stone-cold, let me say genetics aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. If you’re lucky you inherit your Aunt Bertha’s sexy long legs or your father’s ability to add a bazillion dollar order in his head and get the total correct to the last penny. Without even breaking into a sweat, it’s easy to spout at least a million fabulous traits inheritable by the luck of the draw. Did I get those sexy long legs or the ability to add more than two plus two without a calculator? Noooooooooo. Lucky me. I inherited my Nana’s fear of death we overcompensated for with the nervous habit of laughing. A hysterical reaction? Think Bozo the clown eulogizing your favorite aunt.
I craned my neck like a tortoise and checked around. Then I clamped a fist over my mouth. Cripes, how could I possibly explain my guffaws with Bunny lying there? The disappointment was simultaneously mixed with relief when there was no one else in the parking lot. Where was security when you needed them?
I toed the elevator door open and bent over Bunny. I’d seen enough CSI episodes to know not to touch her. She was stiff as a board and I attributed the bluish tinge of her skin to the bikini crammed down her throat. I was no doctor, but I didn’t need an MD after my name to make this diagnosis. Bunny Frank was dead as the proverbial doorknob.
It was no surprise Bunny Frank had finally pushed someone beyond their limits. The only surprise was it had taken so long. The question wasn’t who wanted Bunny Frank dead. The question was who didn’t?
Born in the Big Apple, Susie Black now calls sunny Southern California home. Like the protagonist in her Holly Swimsuit Mystery Series, Susie is a successful apparel sales executive. Susie began telling stories as soon as she learned to talk. Now she’s telling all the stories from her garment industry experiences in humorous mysteries.
She reads, writes, and speaks Spanish, albeit with an accent that sounds like Mildred from Michigan went on a Mexican vacation and is trying to fit in with the locals. Since life without pizza and ice cream as her core food groups wouldn’t be worth living, she’s a dedicated walker to keep her girlish figure. A voracious reader, she’s also an avid stamp collector. Susie lives with a highly intelligent man and has one incredibly brainy but smart-aleck adult son who inexplicably blames his sarcasm on an inherited genetic defect.
Just behind my college graduation, wedding day, and the birth of my son, June 9th was truly one of the most amazing days of my entire life. My debut cozy mystery Death by Sample Size was released for publication. I am humbled, honored, and proud to be able to say that now I am officially a published author! A life-long dream has come true, a hard-fought-for goal has been accomplished.
If you’ve been waiting to read the book, now is the perfect time to download it.
Innkeeper Maureen O’Dowd lives to cook and bake, spoils her family and friends, and is an expert at keeping secrets, especially about the man who’s held her heart for years. Police Chief Lucas Alexander is dealing with an aging father and a moody teenage son, and he’s in love with a woman who only wants to be friends. How can these two fiercely private people reveal their feelings for one another without destroying the friendship they already have? And if they’re successful, will another secret, if revealed, drive a wedge between Maureen and Lucas that can never be repaired?
So, the final chapter in my MacQuire Women’s series is Serena MacQuire’s story, PASSION’S PALETTE
I loved writing Serena’s story because she is a lot more like me than I’d like to admit in the stubborn and moody department!! It was fun setting her up with a man who put up with her moods and loved her more because of them!
Talented and witty portrait artist Serena MacQuire is successful in everything but love. Her gift for capturing people on canvas is rivalled only by her fiery and legendary temper. A tragedy from the past keeps her heart securely locked away, preventing any man from getting close enough to claim it.
But Seamus Cleary isn’t just any man. After he left his professional football career to become a veterinarian, his bitter wife ended their marriage. Now, as he starts his life over in a new town, love is the last thing he’s looking for. The more he tends to Serena’s horses, though, the more he realizes her own heart needs tender care and healing as well.
Will he be the man who finally unlocks and claims her heart?
With a hip resting against the tabletop,
he browsed through her paints and brushes, lifting one color pot, then another. “So. You’re an artist.”
She nodded.
“What do you paint?”
As he opened and closed the pots, Serena observed his hands, silently assessing the length and width of his fingers. Her mind registered the dexterous movements of each action, the deliberate, steady way his hands performed each task.
“Portraits, mostly.”
“This is pretty big equipment for a portrait. Where do your pictures hang? In castles?”
“Three do,” she told him, charmed when his neck reddened. “But this stuff will be for a mural I’ve been commissioned to do for a hospital.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Impressive. You must be good.”
Allowing a smidgeon of playfulness to creep into her voice, Serena gave him a shrug that rivaled his own. “Better than some. Not as good as others.”
Peggy Jaeger, Author 