Sophia Sinclair's Blog

Have You Ever Faked It?

Let's get real about fake marriages!

There are so many great books about fake relationships/fake marriages out there. There's something extra angsty about reading the story of two people pretending to be a couple while each of them is secretly pining for the other, but trying so hard to stay cool and not let on.

There is a whole romance subgenre devoted to this trope. Here's a quick look at a few currently popular titles: Faking Ms. Right by Claire Kingsley, Unexpected Gift from R.S. Elliot, Fake Marriage by Ajme Williams, Backup Bride by Melinda Mink, A Cowboy and his Fake Marriage by Emmy Eugene, The Billionaire's Fake Wife by L. Steele ... and there are many more. Add in the secret baby or accidental pregnancy trope, and you've really got a hard-to-put-down read.

Claiming Haley in my new series, Babies and Brides, is in this tradition. Here's the blurb: 

I’m a pregnant wedding planner who has less than two weeks to throw together a real wedding for my fake relationship. 

Panting over the hot landscape guy at work was just a harmless diversion until the day he offered his pickup truck to transport a whole lot of leftover wedding liquor to my place. It was only polite to thank him with a few drinks afterward, right? 

I did not plan for what happened next: an accidental pregnancy and a baby daddy who is nothing like I thought. Landscaping was just Jack’s summer job, and he’s about to start medical school. He proposes a fake marriage to solve a few very real complications, and I throw together a crazy-fast wedding while we pretend to be madly in love. 

The only problem is, I’m not pretending. 

This surprise pregnancy romance has a strong heroine, a dreamy doctor-to-be, a couple of bridezillas, the world’s most difficult Mother of the Bride, a manure-smeared femme fatale with a gunnysack full of baby pigs, and quite possibly the swooniest scene ever set in a pickup truck. This is the first book in the Babies and Brides series, a spin-off of the Small-Town Secrets.

Check it out

Here's enough to whet your appetite:

Chapter 1

Jack

I do a little masculine strip tease just outside Haley’s office window almost every day.

That’s where I’m standing right now. I pretend not to notice she’s watching me. It’s a coincidence that I just happen to be standing right outside her window when I decide it’s time for a fresh shirt. I take my time removing the sweaty one, and as I pull the shirt over my head, I flex my abs hard. I can’t see her, but I know she’s riveted. There’s a little breeze, and I pause to let it dry the sweat from my body. Landscaping is hard physical work, and I feel like I need a little stretch for my muscles, so I reach my arms above my head and let out a little groan, knowing her window is open and she can hear me. Then I run my fingers through my hair, because of course it might be messed up from removing my sweaty shirt. Can’t have messed up hair.

I stretch this show out as long as I can, and then I put on a fresh, clean T-shirt and get back to work. I have already manicured every square inch of lawn visible from Haley’s window, but there are other parts of the property that actually require my attention. I’m installing decorative fencing, planting flower beds and laying stone walkways. I’m turning the grounds around The Clipper into a showplace; the owner is getting ready to do another expansion and is transforming this place into a more upscale destination than the little towny bar and motel it used to be.

I know Haley is lusting over me and I’m lusting right back, but I don’t let on. Nothing can come of it. I shouldn’t even be here in Fairview right now, but I took a gap year between college and medical school so I could spend more time with Mom, helping take care of her while she fought ovarian cancer. When she lost that battle sooner than expected, my old friend Ashley suggested I fill out the rest of my year off by handling her landscaping.

“A few months of hard physical labor might be just what you need before the mental load of med school,” she’d said to me as I sat one night in her bar. “And I know you did a lot of landscaping in the summers during high school and college. You could make the grounds here a showplace.”

I took her up on it. She was right. All this hard work keeps me from brooding and at the end of each workday, I can see tangible progress. There’s nothing like being able to look at a brand new fence or raised flower bed and feel a sense of accomplishment. This is the last time I’ll do this kind of work. By fall, I’ll be more than ready to make the switch to sitting on my butt all day, attending lectures and studying.

But I know I’ll miss Haley. She wears those cute little dresses that show her figure almost every single day and she always looks so soft and feminine. I like the way her hair falls across her face like a curtain when she tilts her head. And what I really like is the expression on her face behind that soft cascade of hair when she thinks I don’t see her looking at me. I know that look. It’s pure, naked desire.

She has no idea I know she’s checking me out … or that I’m teasing her … or just how often I’m looking back.

Chapter 2

Haley

A month ago, I’d have said it feels good to finally have my life back on track.

But it turns out this is a roller coaster track, and I’m bracing myself for the next plunge, and it’s all because I’ve developed an unhealthy obsession with the Greek-god-like man doing the landscaping. Watching him from my office window while eating tiny pieces of fudge is my secret guilty pleasure.

Jack Packer. Even his name is vaguely suggestive. Tall, tan and muscular, he looks like he should be on the cover of a men’s fitness magazine. And if he were, women would buy every copy. He is utterly irresistible … which is why I have a pregnancy test in my purse right now.

It’s the second test I’ve made a special trip to Springfield to buy — I wouldn’t dare buy such a thing here in gossipy little Fairview — but the world is against my attempts to get the answer to the most pressing question I’ve ever had in my life.

The first thing I do after sneaking out to buy it is rush into one of the work restrooms, but my co-worker Pam, who runs the kitchen, is right behind me.

“Whoa, I’ve overdone the iced tea today,” Pam says, as she takes the adjacent stall. I decide I’ll wait her out so she won’t hear any suspicious sounds, but instead of leaving, Pam starts fussing with her hair. Ever sit on a toilet, poised to pee, and try to hold it? And then hold it a little longer? And a little longer? When your bladder is already really full? Right. Finally, I just can’t hold it any longer. I decided I’ll try again when I have more privacy.

Except my best friend Cadence sees the pharmacy bag in my purse when I am getting a snack in the break room.

“Ooh, is that Hazel’s fudge?” I suddenly realize the shape of the pregnancy test box is similar to that of the locally made fudge a lot of local businesses sell from a display by the register — both of us have a little addiction to it and often buy and share a box. Cadence teases me by reaching out and pretending she is going to steal it from my purse.

I panic. “Oh,” I say. “It’s empty.” And I quickly drop the entire bag into a covered trash can. There goes the brand new test I am dying to take.

So after work, I buy another test, and this one I have hidden in the zippered pocket of my purse. Just in case. Nothing will keep me from finding out whether my unwise (but oh so amazing!) night with Jack had had serious consequences.

Nothing, I tell you!

On my way home, however, one of my clients calls me in a panic.

“Oh, Haley, the whole wedding is ruined! I don’t know what to do!”

It’s Kate, a bride whose wedding is in a month. Kate lives out in the country outside Fairview, and sounds so hysterical that I agree to drive out to her house. How Kate handles the rest of her life is beyond me; she had nearly had a nervous breakdown when the cake topper she wanted turned out to be on backorder.

As soon as I pull into the driveway, Kate comes running out of the house, sobbing.

“Thank God you’re here! I can’t talk to my mother or Frank about this. They’d die, Haley. They’d die.” Frank is the fiance. I assume he takes tranquilizers just to deal with Kate. I know I’d have to.

“What is it, Kate?”

“I think I’m pregnant. And if I am, I won’t be able to tighten the corset enough to fit into the gown, and then everything is ruined. We want babies, but we wanted to start trying on our wedding night. Not now!”

“The wedding’s only a month away. Does it really matter so much if you’re pregnant now?”

“Haley! Of course it matters! My father paid $30,000 for this gown, and it has to fit.”

I ask the obvious question. “Have you taken a pregnancy test?”

“I can’t be seen buying a pregnancy test. Everybody in Fairview knows me! What would people say?”

My guess is they wouldn’t say anything, because if she were smart, she’d drive into Springfield to make that purchase. That’s where I go to buy things like condoms, yeast infection medication and hemorrhoid suppositories. You know, anything you wouldn’t be wild about having your friends see you buy. Including pregnancy tests.

“Wait, so you haven’t taken a test? Shouldn’t you wait until you know for sure before you panic?” After all, that’s what I’m doing. My own panic is firmly contained in what feels like a tiny box in the back of my head. For now.

“Well, I tried on the dress after the taco luncheon with my bridesmaids today. And it doesn’t fit. Not even close! And it fit fine last month. I’m bloated — just like a pregnant woman.”

“You look fine,” I say, my eyes slipping down to Kate’s belly. I’d bet money it’s all taco, no baby. But big tears are falling out of Kate’s eyes, and I know there is only one thing to do.

“It so happens I always carry an emergency pregnancy test for clients,” I say, unzipping my purse. “Here you go. The instructions are in the box, but it’s pretty straight-forward. Just pee on the stick.”

Kate hugs me before running off to the bathroom. A minute later, she comes running back out, holding the test in front of her.

“It has a line — is that bad?” She thrusts the stick toward me, and I do a quick backward retreat. Can Kate not think about the fact that she is shoving a urine-soaked object right toward my face?

“One line is good. One line means you’re not pregnant. If you’re pregnant, it shows two lines,” I say.

“Oh, God, Haley, what would I do without you?”

I just smile. I’m definitely adding a hefty charge to Kate’s bill for this.

But now I need to buy another test for myself, and the results will either send me plunging up or down this damned roller coaster track I’m stuck on.

Originally, I studied pre-med and expected to become a doctor. Moving on up! But I’d suffered a serious bout of depression in college and had dropped out, both my mood and my prospects in the dumpster. Then I scored a dream job as a wedding planner at an island resort that specialized in destination weddings. Awesome Plan B, moving up! Then the owner went to prison for tax fraud and the whole place closed, so I returned home to Fairview, where the only job I could get was running the desk at a decidedly cut-rate motel, The Clipper. Damn, going down. Then even that job ended when the place abruptly closed. Damn, going way down. Then the bartender bought the whole place, transformed it into an upscale boutique hotel/bar/restaurant, and hired me back. Going back up again!

I was overjoyed when the new owner asked me to establish a wedding planning business here. The former bartender and now owner, Ashley, had married a developer who had opened a cute lakeside entertainment complex that drew brides from miles around, so she was thrilled to learn that I had experience in wedding planning. Up, up, up!

Finally, I’m making reasonably good money and can somewhat placate my super-judgy mother with that fact. Mom still does not approve of wedding planning as a career and never stops warning me that I’m never going to find a good husband if I’m only dealing with men who are about to marry someone else.

“I paid for you to go to a good school so you could become a doctor or at least marry one. Not so you could turn right around and become a wedding planner! The only doctors you’re going to meet are going to be the ones marrying other girls.”

I tell my mother that I have no interest in marrying anybody. After all, I’ve watched half my high school friends go through divorces. “I like weddings, Mom. Marriage, not so much.”

“Nonsense. When you meet the right man, you’ll change your mind.”

I’m a little afraid of single motherhood, but what I’m really afraid of is telling my mother. And that’s probably why I’ve waited two whole weeks for my period to show up before buying all these tests.

Chapter 3

Haley

If I’m actually pregnant, it’s Maggie Finch’s fault.

That is my thought as I drive to Springfield to purchase a third pregnancy test. It has been about a month since I’ve had my little lapse in judgment. I definitely should bill Maggie for this.

Bridezilla extraordinaire Maggie and her groom don’t drink so they resisted hiring a bartender. Instead, they decide, they’ll have a stocked bar and guests who wish to have a drink can quietly help themselves. It will be more discreet, they say. I tell them it is far cheaper to hire a bartender than to let the guests make their own drinks, but they don’t listen.

“You’ll be charged for open bottles. Unopened bottles can be returned, but not open bottles.”

“My friends barely even drink. They can be trusted to handle it,” the woman breezily assures me, so that is that. I follow her wishes. I also make sure Maggie pays for the entire liquor order up front.

Naturally, every bottle is opened, and most of them have only a few drinks poured from them. When I tell Maggie afterward the liquor is all hers, she makes a little sound of distaste and says she doesn’t want any of it. So, faced with dozens of partial bottles, I ask Ashley what she wants me to do.

“I can’t sell from opened bottles. Throw them out or keep them for yourself.”

I decide this is an opportunity to stock my personal liquor cabinet so well I’ll never need to buy another bottle of booze for the rest of my life. My problem, however, is that my car is in the shop. I’ve been hitching rides from Cadence or walking. My apartment isn't all that far from The Clipper. But Cadence is working the front desk of the hotel today.

So I step into the bar to explain my problem to Dean, the bartender, and to ask him if he’s willing to give me a lift home.

“I would, but I’m on my own here today and can’t leave until closing time.”

Jack is sitting at the end of the bar, drinking glass after glass of plain water and looking far more delicious than a man who has been working out in the hot sun all day has any right to look.

“I can drive you right now. I just needed to rehydrate.”

I am about to make an excuse but then I change my mind and smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“You should invite everyone over and have a party with your haul,” Dean says.

“That’s a good idea. I just might do that.”

Jack drives a truck with a trailer full of equipment hooked to the back of it. I know he isn’t a regular employee; she’s told me he is just getting things in shape and she plans to contract with a lawn service to keep things up next year. Soon it will be bye-bye golden sculpted landscaping god, and then I can stop drooling at him through my office window and get down to the serious business of ordering cakes, booking bands and calming nervous brides.

Jack gulps down one last glass of water and nods to Dean, then leads me to his truck.

I’ve never been this close to him before and I feel a mixture of shyness and intoxication. He doesn’t smell like sweat. He smells like essence of manhood, and in small doses, at least, there is no finer scent.

“The booze is at the lake lodge,” I say, unnecessarily, just because I need to find something to say. He is already driving that way. He recently installed a tumbled stone outdoor dance floor surrounded by gorgeous planters exploding with colorful flowers. There is lots of outdoor seating and a dining area that can be reconfigured depending on whether the bride wants to have her ceremony or dinner or both outside. Some brides marry in a church and have just the reception here, but others have the entire event at the lodge.

I prefer it when they have the entire wedding and reception here; it simplifies everything and I think most guests appreciate not having to drive from one place to another. But I will accommodate any request, even if I think it’s silly. A case in point being to decide to let the guests self-serve nearly a thousand dollars worth of liquor instead of paying the modest cost for a bartender.

“Didn’t you warn the bride this would happen?” Jack is a confident driver, and he turns off the radio when I climb in, not assuming our musical tastes are the same. That seems considerate, but I’m a little curious about what he likes to listen to.

“Repeatedly. She assured me it would not be a problem with her friends.” Being in the same small space with him is making me feel more intoxicated than booze ever could. Can he tell I am close to swooning, or is he so used to women losing their shit over him that he no longer notices it?

“Maybe her friends are bigger boozers than she assumed.”

“Definitely. But her loss, my gain. I may never have to buy another bottle of alcohol.”

Jack pulls the truck up to the back of the lodge, and I open the place with my key. The lodge is empty and has an air of expectancy about it; usually when people see this space, it is full of flowers and lights and beautifully decorated tables. On this particular day, however, the tables and chairs are all pushed to the side and everything is bare and boring. No flowers, no fairy lights, no white tablecloths.

Jack follows me in and I show him where the bottles are.

“I should have brought some bags to hold the bottles. But maybe I can find something,” I say, as both of us rummage around in the kitchen area.

“Success!” He holds up two empty cardboard boxes. “These will hold most of it.” Together, we fill up the boxes with the 32 partial bottles of whisky, scotch, gin, rum, vodka, tequila and more. There had been wine, but open wine doesn’t keep well so it has already been discarded.

Jack easily lifts the first box, taking care to support the bottom, and settles it into the bed of his truck. Then he returns for the other one.

I give him my address and he drives us there. I only live a few minutes away; that was true of everything in Fairview. You can drive from one end to the other in about 10 minutes. It’s only polite, I decide, to offer the man a drink and a few bottles after he carries the boxes into my kitchen for me.

“So what’s your favorite drink?” I ask.

“I never say no to a gin and tonic, if you have the limes and tonic water,” he says.

“What if I don’t have limes?” I should have thought this out and been prepared, but I hadn’t dreamed I’d have Jack in my kitchen.

“It’ll still taste good without the limes.”

“Um,” I say. “What if I don’t have tonic water? Or juice, or soda?”

“Neat scotch it is,” he says, and he gives a little laugh, which transforms his face.

“I’ll give it a try,” I say, and get out two bar glasses — fortunately I at least have some decent barware — and pour a little scotch for each of us.

“So in spite of having a bar’s worth of booze, you’re not a big drinker, I take it.” He is settled onto one edge of my sofa, and I take a chair across from him.

“Not so much, really. At least, not at home. Since I live by myself, if I’m going to have a drink, it’s nearly always going to be at a bar with friends. So I don’t keep things like tonic water and limes on hand.”

I like talking to him, because it gives me an excuse to look at his face. Jack is just so good-looking. It isn’t fair that his face looks as finely sculpted as his body does. He has that strong jawline and those piercing eyes that make women’s panties fall off all by themselves.

He’s sipping his scotch with evident delight, but I feel nervous to take my first sip. “I’ll just go ahead and admit that I’ve never actually tasted scotch before. It’s going to be strong, isn’t it?”

“No, not at all,” Jack says. “It’s very mild. Almost like water. You’ll barely taste it.”

“Really?” I take a gulp and start choking. By the time I finish coughing, tears are running down my face, and Jack is dabbing at them with his T-shirt. That level of intimacy is more than I can take.

“I am so sorry, Haley. I thought you would know I was joking. I didn’t mean to make you choke on it. Truly.”

My embarrassment is strong, but at least he isn’t laughing at me. He does, in fact, seem very contrite.

“It’s OK,” I say, feeling gullible. My mouth is inches away from his bare abs, which as he leans over and shifts slightly in order to dab at the fresh tears running down my cheeks, causes the muscles to ripple and contract. I feel a deep urge to just start kissing him, but manage to restrain myself. Instead, I inhale deeply. Hopefully he doesn't notice I am literally sniffing his abs.

When he pulls back and lets his shirt fall back down, our eyes meet and for just a second I am sure he knows exactly the effect he’s had on me, but then he looks conflicted and returns to the sofa.

“I really am sorry,” he says. “Scotch is for sipping.”

“I know that. I’ve never tasted it, but I should have known better. It’s a sort of whiskey, right?”

“Don’t let a Scotsman hear you say that, but yes. It’s an acquired taste.”

“I don’t think I’ve managed to acquire it.”

“Do you have orange juice? You could make a screwdriver. There are about half a dozen opened bottles of vodka. Maybe you should work your way up to scotch.”

We gaze together into my nearly empty refrigerator, but then I remember I have a can of frozen orange juice concentrate in my freezer, and he helps me mix a screwdriver.

“Honestly, this is more my style,” I say, taking the first sip of a not-very-strong screwdriver.

“More scotch for me,” Jack says. He drinks it very slowly, but I notice he adds to his glass at least twice. I’ll send the whole bottle home with him shortly. I’ll have to get him out of here, because I already feel a little tipsy and I honestly am not sure if it is from the alcohol or the proximity to his muscled abs when he’d used his shirttail to wipe away my tears.

But after my second screwdriver, I feel talkative and start telling him my best wedding stories. I have a million of them.

“You wouldn’t believe how many grooms have propositioned me. I always just brush it off and pretend I don’t understand what they’re hinting at unless they’re really persistent. If I have to, I just say something like, ‘I’ll forget you ever said that if it never happens again.’ That’s my go-to phrase. But this one wedding, well, I’ll never forget it. The groom made a pass during the rehearsal dinner, and then you’ll never guess who made a move during the reception.”

“The father of the bride?”

“The bride herself!”

I put down my screwdriver and stand up. I’m feeling uninhibited. “So check it out. I’m in the kitchen dealing with the caterer, who had mistakenly added cheese to the vegan dinners for some reason. The bride comes back there and takes my hand to lead me into the room where all her stuff was. It was the room where she’d had her makeup and everything done. I thought it was going to be some kind of makeup emergency or maybe she needed me to help hold up her train so she could pee. That kind of thing. Instead, she throws her arms around me and starts kissing me!”

This gets Jack’s attention. He even puts down his drink.

“So she said she and her brand-new husband wanted to invite me to join them for their wedding night. And she’s basically making out with me.”

“What did you do?”

“I was pretty stunned. But honestly, something like that could only go wrong, and it wouldn’t exactly help my reputation as a wedding planner if they ended up with regret afterward. So I made up an excuse. I generally try not to turn down whatever request brides make, no matter what, but up to then, the craziest requests were things like wanting to have a ranch dressing fountain on the buffet table or having their dog serve as the ringbearer. I’ve literally never been propositioned by any other bride.”

Jake takes another sip. “And yet, you didn’t object to the idea. You objected to it possibly hurting your career. Interesting.” His eyes focus on me, giving me an excuse to indulge in looking at his eyes. They are mesmerizing.

I suddenly realize how my story sounds and sit back down. “I mean, I wasn’t going to for lots of reasons.” And then I take another big gulp of my drink. Because I’m smart like that. Anyway, by now, it just tastes like straight orange juice.

Jake is smiling. “What I get out of that story is that you’re so hot, even brides can’t resist you. So if they can’t, how can I?” In three steps, he is standing in front of my chair, and he pulls me up to him and puts his arms around me and starts kissing me.

“Is this how the bride kissed you?”

“Well, honestly, she didn’t have any beard stubble. So not exactly the same, no.” Then I wonder why I’ve said that and try to think of something better to say, but either because of the vodka or because of Jack’s kisses or possibly because of both, I can’t form a single coherent thought.

All I know is the man I’ve been drooling over for weeks is kissing me like nobody has ever kissed me before. His lips are full and soft, but his chin is stubbled with day-old growth and the contrast is making me wild. One second, his kiss is soft and warm, and the next it is rough and hard, and I can’t keep up.

I can’t resist, either, and after several minutes of making out, we are lying on the sofa, our bodies grinding together as if we think our clothes will melt away if we just kiss enough.

“Take me to your bedroom,” he whispers in between kisses up and down my neck, and I don’t say a word. I just lead him into my room, pull back the spread with a single motion and jump right in, and we spend the next few minutes very inefficiently removing each other’s clothing. It would have been faster if we’d gotten out of bed and each of us had concentrated on undressing ourselves, but instead, we are lying down and kissing and feeling each other and trying to get each other’s clothes off. We’ve only managed to remove our shirts and my bra. This would have to be the one day I’m wearing jeans instead of a little sundress.

Finally, Jack jumps out of bed, tears off his shorts and underwear in one swift motion, and then reaches down and pulls off my jeans. I helpfully lift my bottom, and my panties come right off with the jeans. Possibly my jeans are too tight, but it’s an efficient way to get naked fast.

“Finally!” I murmur.

“Do you have a condom?”

I haven’t even thought about it, which isn’t like me. Fortunately, I do have some. “Top drawer, your side.”

He rummages around my bedside table, finally locating the box. It’s jammed pretty far back there, because it has been a long time since I’ve needed contraception. While he is taking care of things, I stare at his smooth, tan, muscular back, and the perfectly sculpted ivory of his butt. His butt looks like the model for Michelangelo’s David, and the rest of him looks like a California surfer god.

Then he turns around and rolls over onto me, and we both moan with relief as our bodies join.

He resumes kissing me again, our upper and lower bodies communicating, both speaking the same language. Maybe it’s just the screwdrivers, but I feel as if he is somehow able to read my mind and do exactly what I want him to do. It is as if he has a road map to my body, and he knows exactly how to get me where I want to go.

Maybe it is because I am so attracted to him, maybe it’s because he is such a good kisser, maybe it’s the shape of him inside me, or maybe it’s because all the movements that work for him happen to be the same ones that work for me, but I can feel my orgasm building and building. It’s not usually this easy for me. I moan and squeal and then, finally, can’t help but break the kiss so I can let out a weak scream.

Jack reacts with a low growl, and I feel his erection throb and pulse and I know he likes it, too. He gives me a final kiss and rolls away.

“Wow,” is all he says, and then he turns to me.

“Wow is right.” I cannot stop smiling.

“That bride really missed out.” He touches my cheek and trails his hand lightly down to my breast, which he gives a light squeeze.

“Something tells me she wouldn’t have been able to do to me what you just did.”

Jake sits up. “Let’s take a shower together. I was already pretty sweaty before I even came here. Sorry about that. I didn’t expect this. But now I’d like to clean up a little.”

One of the reasons I chose this apartment in the first place is the fantastic bathroom. It has a soaking tub, but it also has a large glassed-in shower area with a waterfall shower head and a bonus hand-held shower. Once The Clipper’s prospects and my own had improved, I’d quickly ditched the dingy little apartment I’d been subsisting in.

Inside the shower, we soap each other up, and he quickly grows hard again. Smiling, I drop to my knees and take him into my mouth, aiming more at teasing him than finishing him. Mostly, I want to show off. I have reason to think I’m pretty good at this, although Cadence says you can’t believe a thing men say about it. They’ll always claim you give amazing blowjobs because they want you to keep giving them. But whatever. I squeeze his butt and stand up again.

Jack soaps up my breasts and gives them the attention he’d mostly skipped before while I lean against the shower stall and let the water run down my body. I feel warm and relaxed, except my nipples, which are eagerly jutting out and enjoying everything Jack does.

But at this point, I really want to get back into bed. So I turn off the water and take a few minutes to towel off and to comb my wet hair and put it up into a messy bun. Jack’s eyes meet mine in the mirror and we smile at each other.

Our second round starts slow and sensual but ends up even more frenzied. We keep changing positions. It’s like both of us keep having great ideas for making everything feel even better. Each time we change positions, my body misses the feeling of him being inside me. When he enters me again, I welcome him inside me and sigh with relief as the good feeling resumes. I think nothing could feel better than what he’s doing, and then he does something new and it feels even better.

“Everything you do feels so amazing,” he mutters at one point, and rolls me onto all fours. He starts out gentle, but when he sees how much I like it, he begins pounding away. But he doesn’t forget about me. He reaches around and strokes me, and this time there is no warning — I just explode immediately.

Jack does the same, and we both make plenty of noise.

And then he pulls out, and the mood changes.

“Uh oh.” I swing around and see the reason for his dismay — the condom is broken.

“Oh my God,” is all I say at first. And then I repeat it. “Oh. My. God.”

“I haven’t been with anyone for a long time,” Jack says. “I’m sure I’m safe.”

“But what about pregnancy? Oh my God!”

“I understand. I’m sorry this happened. But let’s stay calm. Our chances of everything being OK are very good.” He reaches out his arms to me, but I pull away. You don’t want to think about your mother when you’re in bed with a guy, but suddenly, my mind goes there.

“My mother will kill me if I get pregnant.”

“I understand why you’re upset. Neither of us meant for this to happen.”

“No, you don’t understand how my mother is. Nothing I do is ever good enough for her. If she knew I’d gotten pregnant by the lawnmower man, she’d disown me.”

Jack’s face darkens. “That is a seriously judgy thing to say.”

“I’m sorry. I know that sounds horrible. But having a child with a guy who mows yards for a living is not in my plans.”

Jack is up and halfway back into his clothes. “I’ve seen you checking me out for weeks. You weren’t even discreet about it. But if I knew you thought I was somehow less worthy because I’m doing landscaping, I never would have been interested in you. Who the hell do you think you are, Haley?”

“I’m sorry. I’m just terrified.”

“That’s understandable.” He is fully dressed now, and is hunting down his shoes, socks and phone.

He’s right. I sound terrible. But I’m too miserable and terrified to fix it right now. I clutch my pillow in front of me as if it were a shield. “I really am sorry.”

“So am I.” And without another word, he leaves.

Chapter 4

Jack

Apparently, Haley thinks sex with me is slumming.

Maybe I could have made everything better by letting her know landscaping was just a sideline right now. But the very thought of announcing, “Oh, don’t worry. I’m about to start med school. If worst comes to worst, you can tell your mom you got knocked up by a future doctor!” doesn’t set well with me. I’m the same person, regardless of whether I’m mowing a lawn or treating a patient. And if I’m not good enough on the basis of my summer job, then why should I suddenly be good enough just because I will eventually be a doctor?

My parents brought me up to respect everyone. They taught me the world is full of people who are working in low-paid jobs for all kinds of reasons, and many of those reasons have nothing to do with the person’s talent or work ethic. Sometimes where we end up has more to do with the circumstances we’re faced with. And besides that, all honest work is respectable.

I think that’s why both my dad and grandfather were such popular doctors. My dad was the kind of doctor who got to know the whole family. My grandfather delivered about half the babies born in Fairview while he was practicing. By the time my dad joined his practice, most women went to an obstetrician to give birth, but he handled just about everything else.

Dad’s patients included all kinds of people. He took care of the wealthy and the poor and everybody in between, and every patient got the same quality care, even if they couldn’t pay. It was a different time, before insurance rules made it so hard to practice. Almost everyone in Fairview turned out for his funeral, and the hospital named a floor for him. Haley must not have been living here when he died, because she seems to have no idea who my dad was.

I feel really disappointed. I’ve enjoyed teasing her and when we started talking, I really liked her. I’d felt a real connection. Too bad she turned out to be so stuck up. I’m usually a better judge of character.
Click here to keep reading.

Crazy Little Thing: Not So Crazy!

So I'm reading the good old New York Times Sunday paper yesterday and there's a business story that knocked my socks off. It's about people doing exactly what Ashley did in Crazy Little Thing. It is, in a word, crazy.

Here's the story, which is pretty interesting. It's about old motels being turned into upscale destinations ... which is, if you've read Crazy Little Thing, exactly what Ashley did! 

I did quite a bit of research to explain how a small-town bartender could save and invest her money and buy the motel and bar where she worked. I had to pretty much put together her business plan to make the whole thing believable! (Follow me for more great business ideas — my characters tend to do a lot of cool things!)

In case you haven't read it, here's the blurb:

Ashley Butler is everyone’s favorite bartender at The Clipper. She’s seemingly always there to remember your favorite drink and offer a sympathetic ear. But Ashley has plans that go far beyond bartending. She has been quietly working on a major project for years, and she’s just about to make her move.

When wealthy developer Maxwell Bishop makes a stop at The Clipper, he’s utterly captivated by the beautiful, intelligent, self-assured woman behind the bar. When he accidentally throws a monkey wrench into her plans, he tries to make it up to her.

Ashley accepts his offer and their attraction heats up, but they are from such different worlds. She was raised by a poor single mother. He was born to wealth. So she has a counter-offer for him: Spend a week in her world, living the life of a poor, small-town bartender. As Ashley’s dream project takes off, she faces a choice between the life she’s worked so hard to build for herself and a life with Maxwell. Is there a way to have both?

Who Doesn't Love a Romance Spin-Off?

What do Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul have to do with my books?

Not very much, honestly, except I am always hoping they'll decide to do a sequel that explores the life of Walt Jr.

But we all love a good spin-off, don't we? 

That's why I'm writing a spin-off series that takes up right where the Small-Town Secrets ends. The new series, Babies and Brides, focuses on some of the younger residents of good old Fairview, the sweet little small town where the first series too place. You already know all the hang-outs in Fairview. If you were magically dropped in, you'd know where to order a pizza (Sorrentino's, of course) and where to get the best ice cream (Remy's). And would you order a drink anywhere but at The Clipper? Heck no.

This series launches with Claiming Haley. You may remember her from Crazy Little Thing and Laws of Attraction. She appeared in both. Now we learn her back story, and you've probably already deduced by the series name that there's an accidental pregnancy trope here. In fact, we have accidental pregnancy, fake relationship/fake marriage and small town romance all rolled into one juicy, delicious and very satisfying story.

The cover, alas, is not yet back from the designer. It will be smoking hot, as is the guy who is claiming Haley. His name is Jack, and his father and grandfather both served as Fairview's favorite family doctors in their day. Jack is about to go off to medical school so follow in their footsteps, so he knows better than to start something with Haley. For her part, she thinks he's "just" the landscaping guy and doesn't know he's going to become a doctor, so she thinks he's someone her horribly snobby mother won't accept. All kinds of misunderstands abound, of course. You didn't expect this was going to go smoothly, did you? Ha! 

I'm still looking for beta readers, so if you want an ARC, it's available on Bookfunnel: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/a11bkbel0j

Do let me know what you think of it, OK?

Let's Hear it for the Mom Tattoos: Stretch Marks!

If you've ever given birth, there's a decent chance you now have stretch marks. There's also a decent chance you're not thrilled about this. But I'm here to say we need to try to think a new way about our stretch marks. I have so many stretch marks. My babies were large — my son weighed 10 pounds even! Ouch! 
For many years, I was too upset about my stretch marks to show them to anyone. I felt embarrassed by them and always wore a one-piece bathing suit. The thought of any man but my husband seeing them was terrifying to me! Part of what made me so embarrassed was the way he spoke about my stretch marks. When he decided he wanted a divorce, he told me my stretch marks looked so bad that if I were dead on the side of the road, a vulture wouldn't touch my stomach. He had a few other choice things to say about my stretch marks, too. 
In time, I dated plenty of other men who didn't have a problem with my stretch marks. They knew I was a mom and they knew that lots of moms have stretch marks. It was normal and nothing they hadn't seen before. In time, I relaxed and learned to see them as "mom tattoos."

People often get a body modification, like a tattoo, to mark a significant experience. Soldiers often get a tat commemorating their service. Some people get tats having to do with their careers or hobbies. Well, I have mom tats that commemorate and celebrate the times I made — with very minimal help from their dad — actual human beings. That's an achievement, my fellow moms. We made humans. Pretty awesome, huh? 
So, what do stretch marks have to do with romance novels?
I am working on a new series of romance novels. It will still be set in the mythical town of Fairview, just like the Small-Town Secrets, but these books will all center on couples who first face a surprise pregnancy and then have to decide whether they want to have a relationship. You may know these as secret baby or accidental pregnancy tropes.
I'm excited about this series, which will allow me to indulge my enthusiasm about pregnancy, babies, birth and breastfeeding! If you have read Kiss and Tell, you may remember the epic surprise birth scene. If you read Perfect Fit, you know that Julie is a doula training to become a midwife. Well, in this series, Julie is a full-fledged midwife and she's ready to deliver some babies! Get ready for a baby boom in Fairview. 
I'm calling the new series Babies and Brides. Haley's wedding planner business is about to take off. The first book is Claiming Haley. If you read Crazy Little Thing, you may remember Haley working at The Clipper. Well, she helps plan a wedding for Hazel and Dee in Laws of Attraction, and in Claiming Haley you're going to find out she has an unplanned encounter with a gorgeous guy she's been drooling over for weeks ... and guess what happens next? Bring on the accidental pregnancy and fake relationship tropes! 
I'm not going to sugarcoat the pregnancies in these books. These aren't crazy fantasy love stories; they're very much like real life. They're realistic. Haley has to deal with morning sickness and stretch marks and all the rest of the things most of us who have given birth have dealt with. But she's also going to have a Happily Ever After ending — and that is realistic as well! 
That ex of mine who delighted in telling me nobody would ever want me again? Ha, I just celebrated 15 years of marriage with the most amazing man EVER. He loves me, stretch marks and all. Love is real. Happily Ever Afters are real. Good men are real. Good sex is real. I hope you'll enjoy the new series. At this point, I'm waiting for my very busy cover designer to have time to finish the cover. When she does, I'll make an announcement! I can't wait to introduce these new books to you. 
Love, Sophia 
P.S.: If you haven't joined my mailing list, please do! Here is the link: http://eepurl.com/hcE4nb I'll send you a free copy of Happily Ever After All just for joining.

The Compleat Story

[image error] One of the final issues.
(Courtesy of Zoe York)I want to tell you a story. It’s about a crazy coincidence that allowed me to tell someone how much her late mother improved how I parent. And if I follow the daughter’s advice, she just might improve how I write.

It started yesterday, when a fellow romance author recommended a book called Romance Your Brand: Building A Marketable Genre Fiction Series by Zoe York. The suggestion was timely; I’m in the early stages of planning a new romance series with the accidental pregnancy/secret baby tropes. I want to make it rain babies in my mythical town of Fairview, but I also want to make sure people find and love these books.

I love babies, birth and breastfeeding so much I once considered becoming a midwife or doula. I love books so much that there’s seldom been a time in my life when I haven’t been reading or writing one. Problem is, my first small-town romance series (The Small-Town Secrets) has garnered strong reviews and enthusiasm but ho-hum sales. Perhaps, I thought, Zoe’s book will show me what I need to change.

Wieslaw Karpinski (holding Amanda Young),
Catherine Young, Zoe York,
Vera Karpinski. (Courtesy of Zoe York)Turns out she does have plenty of wisdom to impart. But before I got started reading her book, a nugget in the foreword sidetracked me entirely. Zoe mentions that she learned the publishing business at her mother’s knee, while watching her publish a magazine dedicated to things like attachment parenting and breastfeeding. Most people read that line and then read the next one. Not me. I stopped right there.

I immediately suspected her mother must be the woman who put together The Compleat Mother, a long-out-of-print zine that meant everything to me as a young mom. And if so, how bizarre is it that a woman whose little magazine taught me so much about being a better mother might have a daughter who, three decades and more later, could write a book that would teach me how to be a more successful romance novelist?

I stalked Zoe online and sent her messages on both Facebook and Twitter. She was kind enough to confirm that yes, her mother published The Compleat Mother. I was able to tell her how much her mother’s writing had influenced me and made me the mother (and now grandmother) I am. I can only imagine how meaningful it must be to have a (compleat!) stranger praise your late mother; we both teared up.

My babies were born in 1989 and 1992, and in those days, glossy parenting magazines funded largely by the advertising of formula manufacturers and the makers of other mother substitutes told us exactly what we should do: Go to the hospital, get an epidural and give birth on their time table. If you couldn’t do it fast enough, you’d be given a cesarean. Once born, babies would drink formula on a schedule and then sleep in a crib in another room, and if they didn’t like it, you should let them cry it out. They’ve gotta learn to self-soothe.

Most moms of my generation followed this more or less. Some moms tried to nurse, but most of my peers believed they “couldn’t” because they “didn’t have enough milk.” I wondered how the human race survived, with something like 90 percent of human women not being able to feed their children their own milk.

I was lucky, though. My mom had nursed me, albeit for a short time, and I had attended La Leche League. So nursing went well for me. I don’t remember who handed me my first copy of The Compleat Mother. I do know that even as a very poor young mom, I came up with the money to subscribe to it for many years, because I needed it like I needed groceries.

The Compleat Mother didn’t have any advertising for formula or strollers or pacifiers or disposable diapers. Going from memory, the few ads were for things like books, cloth diapers and red raspberry leaf tea. I suspect the greater proportion of the publication’s income came from subscriptions. 

We were a community. Lacking the Internet, which would come around soon but not soon enough for my baby-making season, mothers connected with each other through the magazine. I exchanged old-style letters with several other moms. For years, I corresponded with a Dutch woman named Annaliese. I wish I knew how to connect with her now and tell her that I ended up marrying a Dutch man!

The Compleat Mother gave me information, but it also gave me the courage to follow my instincts. No, I didn’t need to force my babies to sleep in cribs. Yes, it was always good to respond to my babies’ cries. I did not need to wean according to someone else’s timetable. I could continue nursing my first all through my pregnancy with my second, and then to nurse them together for several months. Naysayers told me I would stunt the new baby’s growth. (He was 10 pounds.) I could discipline my children with love and respect and without violence.

What set The Compleat Mother apart, though, was its feminist stance. Even today, it’s not always easy to find voices that stand up for babies and mothers. There are some feminist voices that barely acknowledge that many women want to be mothers. There are conservative voices that want mothers barefoot and pregnant and who fully support breastfeeding, but insist mothering is the only rightful occupation for women. 

But women can do lots of things. Some of us have several intensive mothering years and then we run newsrooms, start businesses, write for magazines and launch careers as novelists. That would be me. Others work as journalists and then start their own magazine and write books. That would be Zoe’s mother, Catherine Young. Others are so successful writing romance novels that they also write books teaching other novelists how to follow in their footsteps. That would be Zoe. Others design engines or build houses or argue court cases or write code or whatever else they want to do. We’re women. We can do a lot of shit besides have babies, but if we do want to have babies, that in no way means we can’t do plenty of other shit, too. Just watch us.

You’ll find more than a few birth scenes in my books. One of my characters (Julie, in Perfect Fit) is a doula training to become a midwife. The birth scene in Kiss and Tell is not to be missed. I love birth. My own births were not the natural births I had hoped for, but I attended my daughter’s natural births and I’ve never seen such goddess-like strength! 

What’s the best thing about romances? It might be the opposite of what their detractors think. Critics believe romances are just about finding a man. Those people are missing the point. Romances are usually female-centric. There are all kinds of romances out there, but most of them aren’t just about finding a partner. The best heroines have their own lives and careers already. Few of them are looking to a man to “complete” them. Romances are a celebration of womanhood. When you read a romance, you step into a woman’s world. She may have children, she may have career issues, she may have money problems, she may be caring for her older parents. She might have a lot of different things going on — same as any other woman. She probably has girlfriends, and most of the time, they do much more than just talk about men. 

Traditionally, the everyday world of women has been thought unimportant — by men. Male historians knew about the diary of Martha Ballard for eons and dismissed it as meaningless fluff centered on women’s lives. It took Laurel Thatcher Ullrich to write A Midwife’s Tale: The Life of Martha Ballard, Based on Her Diary, 1785-1812. It turns out that the stories of women who are delivering babies and tending gardens and spinning wool matter just as much as the stories of the menfolk who are out there fighting wars. (Read that book, if you do happen to like women, birth, babies, history or herstory. It’s a good one!)

The lives of women matter. They matter if and when we’re giving birth, and they matter if and when we have outside careers. The stories of our relationships are worth telling, too. Nothing about women’s lives is trivial, including those parts of the female life that have to do with finding a partner, birthing babies and caring for them. I insist these parts of the female life (for those who choose them) be recognized as just as important as the businesses we run, the masterpieces we paint or the machines we invent. 

We are women, and we’ve always known that our intimate and family lives are a big part of what makes the world go round. The stuff that men have been doing all through history? Some of it was important, sure, but they couldn't have done any of it without us. 

Beagles and books!

Lots of news in the Sophia Sinclair world, but here are the two I want to talk about today. First of all, I'd like everyone to meet Cashew! She is a three-legged senior beagles mix I adopted from my local animal shelter recently. She's very, very sweet and hangs out with me on the futon in my office while I write. She thinks the dog in Worth the Wait should have been a larger part of the story. Everyone's a critic.

Second, I'm still giving away free prequels (click here to download!) to the Small-Town Secrets series. This is Happily Ever After All, and it's about an older lady from the early days in Fairview, reminiscing about her life. Here's a line or two from Carol Ann's remembrance of her first time, just to whet your appetite. This part of the story takes place about a week before her wedding, when she and her soon-to-be husband were painting the house they would move into after returning from their honeymoon:

She had always imagined her first time would be in the bridal suite of a fancy hotel. She’d be wearing a lacy nightgown and her hair and makeup would still be done from their wedding. Indeed, she already had such a nightgown packed in her suitcase, ready and waiting for the big night. 

Instead, here she was, sweaty and paint-smeared, lying on the hard floor, her hair tucked under a kerchief, with her dad’s discarded old shirt rucked up around her neck. She stopped thinking she was going to make him stop what he was doing. This was what was making them married. Not the dress, not the church, not the ring. This. Today.

Cashew and I hope you'll love reading how Carol Ann and Archie met and fell in love when Fairview was a very different place. It's a touch of nostalgia that might make you look at your great-grandma's wedding pictures in a new way.

No More Last-Page Tears!

Sometimes I cry when a good book ends. If I love the characters, I don't want to say goodbye forever. That's why I bring my characters back again and again in subsequent books. The main character in one book often shows up with a new baby in a later book. Each book features a different couple, and we follow them as they work to find their own Happily Ever After.

I am so sure that you will love this series that I decided to write a prequel and give it to you free! All you need to do is click here, and it will send you to the page where you can download the book.

It's the story of Carol Ann, the matriarch of Fairview, and it serves as an introduction to the little town where all the Small-Town Secrets are set.

I recommend you make yourself a good cup of coffee (you'll know why I say that when you get into the book!), tuck yourself into a cozy spot and get ready for a happily ever after.

Let me know what you think!

Get the free prequel to my romance series!

I just got a sneak peak at the cover for my novella that is the prequel to the Small-Town Secrets series, and I can't wait to get the final version so I can share it here!

It's called Happily Ever After All, and you can't buy it. It's ONLY available to newsletter subscribers! Click here to sign up. It's easy, and as soon as I have the final cover back from the designer, I'll send the prequel out to you.

My working title was Carol Ann Drinks Her Coffee. It's the story of an elderly widow who reminisces about meeting her husband, Archie, who eventually became the editor of Fairview's newspaper, The Fairview Review. She remembers when he went off to serve in the Korean War while she was pregnant and what it was like when he retired.

Carol Ann has strong opinions about some of the things going on in today's world. And, of course, as a former newspaper editor myself, I enjoyed writing about Archie's career. Truth to tell, there's a lot of me in Archie (although I did not serve in any war.)

I had a lovely time writing this sweet little prequel, and I hope you'll enjoy it.

Are You Attracted to Magnets?

The Reader Magnet is Coming!
Do you know what a Reader Magnet is? We writers make a deal with you. We agree to give you a free short book, and in return, you give us your email address. Win-win for everyone.
If you sign up for my newsletter, I'll sent along my newly finished reader magnet. It's working title, so far, is Carol Ann Drinks Her Coffee. It is a prequel to the Small-Town Secrets series, and when I finished writing it, and explained the plot to my husband, I cried.
You see, Carol Ann is an older lady who likes to make a cup of coffee and people-watch from her porch or through her living room window. She's a widow, and we learn all about how she and Archie met and married.
Archie had my career (newspaper editor) and many of my bad habits, so it's almost like Carol Ann was married to a curmudgeonly male version of me, (although I never went off to fight in the Korean War and left behind a pregnant wife, so there's that).
All my newsletter subscribers will get a copy just as soon as I manage to get the thing published, so please sign up today! It's easy: http://eepurl.com/hcE4nb

Crazy About Stories?

Tell Me Another Story!

We all love stories. Our ancient ancestors told stories around the fire at night. That was their entertainment, but it was also their oral history, which was the only history they had at that point. 

We all still love stories, whether it's reading a book or watching a movie. But it would be a mistake to think stories are only entertainment. They are, but they're also so much more. My little granddaughter loves to hear stories about Queen Fluff and her cat kingdom. Incidentally, the cats in that kingdom cannot get enough asparagus. They grow and harvest it and then feast on various asparagus dishes. Queen Fluff's Favorite is an asparagus dish made with pasta and parmesan cheese. Do I have to tell you that my granddaughter loves asparagus now? 

When I started a job at an advertising and marketing agency, I was taught to "tell a story" with my ads, and I realized I had been marketing asparagus to my granddaughter all along.

I don't work at an agency anymore, but I realized soon after writing my first romance novel, Worth the Wait, that I could not just spend all day writing stories, as much as I do want that. Nope, I have to market and advertising them, too. That's what I'm doing right now, of course. 

I'd rather be finishing No. 6, "Laws of Attraction," but I have taken a few minutes out of my day to say hello to my readers. If you haven't read my books yet, give them a read. The one pictured above is Crazy Little Thing, and if smart and steamy small-town romance is your jam, I think you'll like it.

And if you'd like to sign up for my newsletter, click here or paste this link into your browser:

http://eepurl.com/hcE4nb?fbclid=IwAR0hLoYojomCpwHzYkY4WJ3V02BqFVCjjn4_PZbpIDJZreZEd6MMx61pw4Q.