Cissy Mecca's Blog, page 2

Horizontal Tasting {Sneak Peek}

Chapter OneMarco

“Do you have to be such a dick?”

First, my sister accused me of gloating. And now I was a dick. “You’re so sweet Min,” I said, handing a customer one of our newest brews. “I love you too.”

If the customer wasn’t a guy we’d known our whole lives, she might have toned it down a bit. 

As it was, Owen just laughed. “Have to agree with her on this one Marco. You are kind of a dick.”

“Because I tell it like it is?” I looked up and down the bar. Everyone seemed to be taken care of at the moment. Though we were slammed earlier, there was enough of a lull now that I could stop for a second. 

“Because you have no filter,” my sister shot back. She turned to Owen. “I blame Kathy Karen for this,” she waved a hand toward me. 

Not this again. At Owen’s confused look, I filled him in before Min could make it a two-hour story. “Yes, the children’s clothing shop in town. They got one look at me when I was like five or six and said, ‘Now that’s the face we need in all our ads.’ Mom agreed and—”

“The rest,” Min nodded to me with a not so appreciative look. “Is history.”

“I knew you modeled when you were younger but had no idea you got your start at Kathy Karen.” He turned to Min. “But I’m not sure what a clothing shop’s bad taste has to do with Marco being a dick?”

Min was happy to explain. “Because if they didn’t hire him for their ads, he never would have become a model. And if he never modeled, he might not think he was god’s gift to the earth. And maybe, just maybe, we’d have a nicer Marco now.”

“Wouldn’t bet on it.” My sister’s fiancé sidled up to her, grabbed Min by the waist and pulled her into him.

“Thanks bud,” I said wryly to Hudson. “Appreciate the support.”

“No problem,” he kissed Min on the cheek before turning to me. “Do you have a second?”

“No,” I said sarcastically. “I’d much rather stand here and get lambasted by my sister than talk to you.” I was already following Hudson away from the bar.

“Love you too, Marco,” Min shot back. 

I puckered my lips and kissed the air. Hearing her laugh after all that she’d been through in the past few months made me smile, even if she did call me a dick. To her credit, she was mostly right.

Leaning against a wall near the back of the bar, I scanned a row of happy customers. How many years had I wanted to open a brewery on our family’s estate? Sure, Grado was a winery first, but the constant stream of customers was a testament to how badly this was needed. Now here we were, the bar open for three weeks with rave reviews, busy as hell. For a change, things had actually worked out. By all accounts, Grado Brewing Company was a success.

“Thinking of last night?” Hudson teased. 

My sister’s fiancé, also Grado Brewing’s manager, had a good reason to ask. The woman I took on a double date with him and Min last night was smoking hot, with a body made for fucking. Since I had a reputation to uphold, I didn’t deny it even though my date had nothing to do with my current good mood.

“So what’s up?” I asked. The bartender we’d hired was holding her own, but a group of four had just sat down. If the past two Saturdays were any indication, we’d be picking up right about now after a mid-afternoon lull. 

“You know how Sunset bought the Baker property a few months back?”

I stopped grinning and looked at Hudson, all business now. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

His expression didn’t put me at ease. 

“I was talking to Owen earlier.” Hudson hesitated.

Between Owen Smith and his dad, the two of them owned half of Kitchi Falls. They knew everyone and everything that happened in town. “What did he say?” 

“That the owners filed a building permit today.”

Shit. “It was only a matter of time. You don’t buy a piece of land to let it sit there empty. Did he know anything else?”

Hudson shook his head. “Only that a permit was filed.”

“Shit,” I said, running my hands through my hair. If it were any other vineyard around the lake, it wouldn’t be a big deal. But the owners of Sunset Vineyards were out-of-towners and, unlike most of the others, they didn’t play nice. Couple that with the fact that they were our closest neighbors, and with the Baker property being wedged between us, it wasn’t great news. “I still don’t know how they got that land. We offered way over market value more times than I can count.”

“Well, they have it. And are apparently ready to use it.”

“I’ll talk to some people tomorrow to see if I can find out what they plan to build.” I snapped my fingers in front of Hudson’s face. He was staring at my sister. “You don’t get enough of each other already?”

A few months ago, that would have annoyed the crap out of me. It wasn’t any secret I didn’t like Hudson when we met. Dominica went to Nashville for a bachelorette party and came back in love with this guy. For a change, it wasn’t just me being a dick. None of my brothers liked him much either. What guy wants his sister dating a male stripper? 

“What’s with the grin?” he asked now.

“I was just thinking about the reception you got on your first visit to Grado.”

Hudson, good natured as he was, didn’t even blink. “Yeah, you guys really rolled out the welcome wagon.”

I slapped him on the shoulder. “I’d apologize for that, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I probably do it again.”

“Appreciate the support,” he echoed my earlier sentiment.

“No problem.”

“When you two are done with your male bonding session, poor Karla could use some help. I’ve gotta get back to the barn,” Min called to us.

Hudson made his way to my sister, and with a quick kiss on the cheek, she was gone. I got a hand in the air in parting as she walked away. “Later Min,” I called, watching as Hudson helped Karla serve the newcomers. Everything had gone better than we’d hoped with the brewery’s opening, with the exception of staffing. We only had two full-time bartenders at the moment, meaning everyone pitched in during busy hours. Thankfully Hudson had two interviews this week. I hoped at least one of them worked out. I wanted zero reasons for Grado Brewing Company to be anything but the most successful fucking brewery on the lake.

Horizontal Tasting is coming November 3rd. Pre-order for a special $2.99 release price here.

Sip & Savor: Sneak Peek

With just two days until the release Sip & Savor, I thought an extended sneak peek might be in order. Without further ado…

 

Chapter 1Min

Kitchi Falls, Finger Lakes, NY

“My nephew is one of those—what do you call them? Naked dancers?”

Dorothy reached across the counter, taking my money as if she had not just said “naked dancers.” The town gossip and retired schoolteacher had surprised me many times over the years, but this one took the cake.

“Um, do you mean male entertainer?” I ventured, not one hundred percent comfortable with this conversation’s major U-turn. We were talking about my sister-in-law’s bachelorette party, which of course, the co-owner of Devine Bakery had already heard about. And then, boom! Naked dancers.

“Sounds like a fancy word for a stripper. That’s what I meant to say.” Dorothy handed me a bag of cinnamon donuts and my change, which I promptly tossed in the tip jar. 

“I had no idea you had a nephew in Nashville.”

“I’d be surprised if your paths hadn’t crossed,” she said. “He was here for almost a month one summer.” 

“I don’t think I remember him.” Granted, my bad memory was only one of my many faults. 

“It was a long time ago,” she said as the tinkling sound of a bell above the door announced a new customer. “I think you were both in middle school.”

“Morning, Dorothy,” a new voice called. “Dominica. Always good to see you. Like two rays of sunshine.”

Dorothy stepped out of the way as Rob Smith moved to the counter. A good friend of Dominca’s father and owner of half the town, including the grocery store next door, he was as much a staple of the community as Dorothy and her husband, Rich. 

“I was just telling Dominica about my nephew,” Dorothy said, “a singer in Nashville.” Giving me a sharp look I interpreted as keep the stripper thing quiet, she continued doing what she did best. Spill the tea. “Dominica and some of the girls are going down there for a bachelorette party this weekend. Can you imagine? I didn’t even have a bachelorette party, never mind getting on a plane to Nashville for it. Kids these days.”

She acted as if my friends and I were fresh out of high school. Of all my friends, I was the youngest at twenty-five, not exactly a kid anymore.

“You’re always on the go,” Rob said. “I thought your mother was a firecracker, but you’re the busiest of the bunch, aren’t you?”

An understatement. “That’s what they say.” 

“Your dad was just telling me they never see you these days.”

I tried hard not to roll my eyes. That sounded just like my dad. “He was literally at the winery two days this week. And as the only sibling still actually living with my parents, I’d say he sees me more than most.”

My dad was still having a hard time with retirement. It would be a year this spring since he and Mom passed the family winery on to my siblings and me, but the adjustment was proving difficult for him. Understandable, since he’d built it from the ground up.

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Rob said. 

Attempting to change the subject, I tried to escape. “I have to get these back to the vineyard before I get a hangry text from Thayle, who’s covering the Wine Barn for me.”

“Tell Antonio’s girl I said hello.”

Antonio’s girl. Honestly, sometimes it seemed like we were still living in the 1950s in this town.

“Don’t go without Hudson’s number,” Dorothy said, stopping me. I couldn’t tell her in front of Rob that I didn’t need it. Pretty sure saying We already have tickets to a male revue, but thank you very much would raise an eyebrow, not to mention I’d be spilling Dorothy’s secret. She had nothing to be ashamed of, but since Rob Smith had a standing poker night with my father, advertising our Nashville itinerary, including the male revue, wasn’t on my to-do list today.

“Is your brother ready to get hitched?” Rob asked as Dorothy wrote down her nephew’s number on a business card. I briefly considered telling her she could text it to me but then nixed the idea as I stared at the old-fashioned cash register on the counter.

“My parents are ready for him to marry, that’s for sure. They’re still afraid Brooke will change her mind. He can be tough sometimes.”

Rob waved his hand in dismissal. “I don’t believe that for a second. I haven’t met a Grado who’s anything but charming, Cosimo included.” We locked eyes and began laughing at the same time. “Okay,” he amended, “I’ll admit Marco is also a bit of a handful.”

Rob was one of the only people who used our full names instead of nicknames. And he was right on that point, Marco was charming for sure. Maybe too much, though. “Bit of a handful? I think you’re forgetting the time he put your bar’s muscat in his pickup and took it to the football field.”

“That one is hard to forget,” he said as Dorothy handed the card to me. 

“But to be fair,” she chimed in, “my son instigated that particular prank. And it was quite a few years ago.”

“He hasn’t matured much,” I said of my brother. “But to answer your question, Cos is more than ready. And we’re thrilled to have Brooke as a part of the family.”

“One dozen cinnamon, please,” Rob said to Dorothy. “She seems like a really nice woman. Your dad adores her.”

“We all do,” I said sincerely. “Thanks for this.” I lifted up the card to Dorothy. “We’ll be sure to connect with him. To hear his . . . music.” I gave her a conspiratorial wink, and for a change, she was on the defensive. Usually, Dorothy was like a pit bull using Devine Bakery as a front for gossip collecting. 

I turned over the card. Hudson Parker. Without the heart to tell her we probably wouldn’t connect since one male revue in five days was probably enough, I slipped the Devine Bakery card into my purse and thanked her, preparing to snag a cinnamon donut well before I arrived back to the estate.

 

Chapter 2Hudson

“I’d kill for that,” I said.

We watched Donny head out the back door hand in hand with his wife. Unlike most of the guys at Encore, he was properly hitched and happy about it. Truth be told, I envied the guy.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Oliver packed up with most of the guys heading out for the night, but I had another gig to get to. “One woman for the rest of your life. Think about it.”

That earned Oliver a snicker from the others. I had been working with Encore for nearly two years, and while these guys could be boneheads, I counted them all as friends, even though they knew full well I wasn’t just like them. Being fawned over by women who saw nothing but a six-pack and no brains in my head wasn’t my idea of a good time. Not that the women I danced for would ever know it. I took my job as seriously as possible given the nature of it. The women came here for a good time. To blow off steam, get away from their real lives for a few hours, and I delivered.

But that didn’t mean working as a male entertainer lent itself to meeting the woman of my dreams. Far from it.

“Where you headed? Maybe we’ll come with you,” Oliver said. 

“Outlaw.” I smiled.

“No, thanks,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder. “You’re on your own. Are you closing it down?”

“Yep.” I couldn’t resist ribbing my friend a little. “Should I tell Shayla you said hello?”

“You can be a real asshole sometimes.”

Looked like Oliver and the pretty bartender at Outlaw Alehouse were not getting back together anytime soon.

Snickering, I finished packing up. “Guilty as charged.”

“Speaking of being guilty, I heard what you did for that bachelorette from Thursday night. Class act, man. How did it happen?”

Slinging my guitar over one shoulder and a gym bag over the other, I shrugged. I was usually off on Thursdays, but this week the bar downstairs was short-staffed. In addition to this gig, and playing guitar wherever I could get the stage, I occasionally picked up a few bartending hours too. Which was how I’d gotten roped into an impromptu striptease for a bachelorette party at the bar.

“I overheard someone ask why she wasn’t upstairs at the male revue. There was no mistaking her as anything other than a bride,” Oliver said.

“Sash?”

“And crown.”

“What did she say?”

I thought back to two nights ago. “She said they couldn’t afford it. That she begged her friends not to go overboard, to save their money for the wedding.”

“But she could afford a bachelorette party in Nashville?”

“Locals,” I said.

“Locals? On Broadway? That’s strange.”

“I thought so too, but apparently one of the women was an out-of-towner, so they were showing her the strip.”

“So you felt bad, pumped up the music and gave the woman a complimentary dance?”

I smiled, remembering her expression when I’d hopped on the bar in front of her. “I did.”

“Got himself a nice slap on the wrist,” added Mike, our resident dancing firefighter, both on the stage and in real life.

We had a license to perform up here, above the bar, for the show. Not so much below. But it was worth it. She and her friends thanked me a hundred times.

“Shit.” Oliver had gone to the door, opened it, and shut it so quickly every one of us knew who was on the other side of that door. 

“Who’s she here for?” Mike asked.

At least every other night a woman, or an entire group of women if we were especially unlucky, waited for one of the guys at our back entrance.

“Who do you think?” Oliver looked pointedly at me. 

“Parker,” Mike said. “Always Parker.”

The other guys laughed. 

“Is she hot?” one of them asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ve got to get to Outlaw.”

Oliver sighed before I could even ask him to talk to them. I sighed in relief, because I did have a gig to get to, but more importantly, I really didn’t want to deal with these women. Some of the others had no problem turning the overzealous women away, but for me, it was my least favorite part of the job. I was here to make a few bucks and put a smile on some faces, not to let them down.

“I owe you one,” I said to him, heading toward the front. I figured by now the stage area would be cleared out. If I was lucky, I could sneak out by taking the stairs down to the bar and heading right out the front door. And if not . . . I was about to potentially get mobbed by a few dozen horny women.

 

Keep reading Tuesday, October 4th when Sip & Savor is released on Amazon and in Kindle Unlimited. Add it to your Goodreads TBR here.

Lay It Down Extended Teaser

 

Chapter One

Neo

“I’m not one to boast about the tonnage we brought across the scales, but the quality of this vintage is remarkable.” I sat down at the bar as my brother Cosimo poured each of us a glass of wine.

“I can’t imagine why you don’t have a girlfriend,” Brooke said, sitting next to me. “Especially when you talk about ‘tonnage’ and such.”

Cos chuckled. Actually chuckled. My super-serious brother Cosimo. Who was this strange man standing behind the tasting bar? 

“Because you put that smile on his face,” I said to Brooke, “I’ll let that comment go.” And then for good measure, “But for the record, I think tonnage is extremely sexy.”

“Of course you do,” said my other brother, Marco, as he strolled up to the group with his typical swagger. “This is what winemakers do,” he explained to Brooke. “It’s somewhat of a pissing contest with them.”

“Winemakers are a strange breed,” she said. “No offense, Neo.”

“I’d say none taken, but I’m extremely offended.”

She scrunched her nose at me, knowing from the huge grin on my face that I was just teasing. It was easy to be in a great mood. Harvest was officially over, and as of one hour ago, the first annual Grado Valley Vineyards Harvest Festival was in the books. It had been a bigger success than any of us could have imagined. Coupled with a fruitful harvest, one of the best the estate has ever had, there was cause to celebrate.

“You guys started without me?” The only Grado sibling not already drinking wine, my sister Dominica—known to her family as Min—made her way across the tasting room floor. With its vaulted ceilings and earth-tones decor, plus a massive floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace on one end, this building was the opposite of the one across the courtyard. Two separate wineries, two completely different feelings, all owned by us. Some had a preference, but I most loved whichever one my family happened to be occupying. 

This was what it was all about. Being able to celebrate a good harvest together, even if each of us had been running on fumes for days. There would be time enough to sleep tomorrow. Tonight was for enjoying the fruits of our labor. Literally.

“Where the hell have you been?” Marco asked. Never one for tact, he poured Min a glass of wine. 

“I’ve been cleaning up the Barn,” she said. “It looked like a war zone in there.”

The 1931 Wine Barn, effectively known as simply “the Barn,” similar to “the Cellar” which was short for the 1942 Wine Cellar we currently occupied, was Min’s domain. She lived and breathed that winery, and so it was no shock to anyone that was where she’d been lingering.

“We’re all here, then?” Cos asked. 

Of course I was the one to point out, “Except for Thayle.” Dominica’s best friend and Grado Valley’s wine club manager. Among other things.

“She had to skip out,” Min said. “Something about Rich needing help in the morning.”

“They really need to hire someone else,” I said. Thayle’s next-door neighbors, an older couple who owned Devine Bakery, the coffee shop in town, relied on Thayle too much, in my opinion. I got that they were like parent figures to her, but between working here full time and filling in whenever Rich and his wife needed her, the woman was run ragged more often than not.

“Tell me about it,” Min frowned. “I can’t remember the last time Thayle had more than ten seconds of downtime. She really needs a break.”

“Come to think of it,” Brooke said, appearing thoughtful, “I think I might know someone who would be a perfect fit for Devine Bakery.”

“I hope so,” Min said. “I feel so bad for Thayle.”

Marco raised a glass. “To our sister from another mother,” he said, toasting Thayle. “Salute.”

Everyone, including me—especially me—drank.

“To a successful first harvest festival,” Brooke said, “and to Dominica, for coming up with the idea in the first place.”

Another round of “hear, hear” as we drank one of my favorite vintages. As usual, I had a hard time simply enjoying the wine and not evaluating it.

“To Brooke,” Cos toasted, “for stepping in when Min was gone this summer, helping to plan the festival”—he winked at her—“and other things I won’t mention in mixed company.”

“Mixed company, my ass,” Marco mumbled as everyone laughed, then took a long drink of his wine. There wasn’t much this family didn’t share, working together as we did. But my brother’s more intimate activities were thankfully not one of our discussion topics. 

Min raised her glass as we made another toast. “And to a successful harvest. Our first as owners, and nowhere near our last.”

Everyone drank heartily to that. Our parents, the original owners of Grado Valley Vineyards, were off on another trip, their third since retiring earlier this spring. It had nearly killed our father not to be here for harvest, but our mother was determined to keep him away as much as possible—especially, she said, this first year. Otherwise his retirement would certainly devolve into a working one. He’d been having a more difficult time stepping back than he’d expected.

“To Brooke’s quest to bring Sarah Gibson to Grado Valley,” I said. “May she be successful, and may Sarah fall in love with our wine.”

A chorus of “salute” was followed by silence as we drank.

“I still can’t believe she might be coming here.” Min wiggled on her stool, presumably getting more comfortable.

“I am positively determined,” Brooke said, “to bring her here.”

“You’ve got, what, three weeks to do it?” Marco asked.

“According to my source,” Brooke said, “she’s flying straight from the UK to New York and hitting Long Island, Hudson Valley, and then us, before Napa.”

“Finally, the East Coast is getting some love,” I said. “It’s about time.”

“And not just any love. Sarah Gibson love,” Cos said, as if I didn’t already realize the magnitude of it. 

Having the British wine critic—a woman some considered to be the most influential in the world—come here, to our corner of wine country . . . it was both exciting and harrowing, the idea that we might be able to get her to visit Grado Valley Vineyards. Apparently, she was still accepting stops in her itinerary, and if Brooke managed to snag one of the coveted spots on her list, despite the hundreds of wineries in the region, I’d never be able to thank her enough. It was a winemaker’s dream.

Speaking of dreams . . . my phone lit up. But this wasn’t the kind of text I dreamt about getting from Min’s friend Thayle. 

After reading Thayle’s text, I looked up from my phone and turned to the others. “Guys, we have a problem.”

Keep reading this sibling’s best friend, forced proximity romance on Amazon and in Kindle Unlimited here.

Lay It Down {Cover Reveal + Giveaway}

To celebrate the cover reveal for Lay It Down, I’m giving you and a friend a chance to win a wine and book lover’s prize pack plus a signed paperback. See below for additional information. But first, a bit about Grade Valley Vineyards #2:𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝’𝐬 𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐨 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐨, 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐨 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐕𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭.My biggest problem? I just got scheduled to take a two-week road trip with Antonio—aka Neo—the sexy winemaker everyone adores.Alone.Just me, and him.But I can be professional, right?I’ve had a lot of practice keeping those feelings locked up tight. Until a seductive game of truth or dare and a private stretch limo blows the “secret” part of my secret crush to bits and pieces.But I can’t let a few wine-fueled nights cloud my judgment. There’s too much at stake—my job, my relationship with my best friend, my treasured place within the Grado family.They’ve taken care of me since I was young, and I would never risk losing them.So I’ll lose my heart instead.  𝗘𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝘄𝗶𝗻 𝗮 𝗰𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘇𝗲 → https://bit.ly/3cKKHuI

Pop & Pour is LIVE on Amazon!

The first book in a brand new steamy, small town romance series is live on Amazon and in Kindle Unlimited. Here’s a sneak peek:

Grado Valley, Finger Lakes, NY

“He is one cocky son of a bitch.”

“Cos, please.”

Shit. Didn’t see Mom walk in. 

I spun around in my chair. Sure enough, the one woman I’d never curse in front of stood at the entrance of my office. Arms crossed. Definitely pissed.

“I have to go,” I said, pressing the button on my phone, effectively hanging up on my brother.

“I was just telling Neo what someone said about me. I’d never use that kind of language myself.” Somehow, I kept a straight face.

“Ahh, so my son is the ‘son of a bitch’ in question? Nice.”

“At least you know it’s not true.” Another straight face.

“Mm-hmm,” she said, obviously disagreeing with me, for good reason. Sitting down across from me, she put something on her lap. Looked like a magazine. 

Mom frowned, which definitely didn’t improve my mood. I’d just been venting to my younger brother that another of our tasting room associates quit. On top of that, our sister’s harebrained idea to hold a Harvest Festival was falling onto my lap, as if harvest season wasn’t a busy enough time already. As expected. It actually wouldn’t be so bad if she wasn’t about to head to Italy for three months.

“Min is killing me with this festival. And I just finished an interview that didn’t go well this morning, so we’re still short a tasting room associate until I can find someone.”

“Wish I could help, Cos-i-mooh.” She smiled after emphasizing the mooh at the end. It was an “I know you asked me to stop saying that twenty years ago, but I’m the woman who gave birth to you so . . . no” smile. I didn’t bother reminding her. She would only launch into the story of how I was obsessed with cows, or “moo-moos,” as I apparently called them. And would probably whip out pictures of my first cow-themed birthday party. Better to let it drop.

“When do you leave?” I asked.

“Now. That’s why I’m here.”

I looked down at my phone for the time. “Dad was just here this morning, said your flight was eleven tonight?” 

I personally hated red-eyes, but to Italy, it made sense. It was a delayed retirement trip, and my parents were finally “going home,” as my mother said. I hated to remind her that she and Dad were two generations removed from “home,” and that she’d lived in upstate New York all her life.

“It is,” she shrugged. “You know your father.”

“He is seriously going to have you sit at the airport for the entire afternoon?”

“What do you think?”

I thought there was as much chance of convincing my father that they were unlikely to get stuck behind an accident and miss his flight as of my mother ceasing to call me Cosi-moo for good. 

“You have your passports? Chargers?”

“Yep.”

“You got some cash already, right? Dad said he was going to the bank last week.”

“This isn’t our first rodeo, Cos. We’re fine. I promise.” Mom leaned forward and plopped a magazine on my desk. “Did you see this yet?”

I picked it up. Homegrown: A Guide to Wine in the Finger Lakes. I hadn’t seen it. Completely forgot it was coming out today.

“You look good, Cos,” she said of the black-and-white photo of me on the cover. It was a headshot I had taken last year, when my parents first announced they’d be retiring this summer. Leaving me in charge. Of the whole damn vineyard. Of a legacy.

I took a deep breath, the headline making this whole thing more real, somehow, than the fact that my parents were about to board a plane leaving me solely in charge. Never mind that I’d been basically flying solo for the past few months. Or that I spent my entire life, with the exception of college, in Grado Valley. Working at the vineyard. 

“You know I love you with your glasses. But you could have smiled even a little. You look serious.”

“Really, Mom?” Me not smiling or being the life of the party like my father was only one of many differences between us. One my mother was acutely aware of. 

“Okay, okay. But it’s not like you don’t know how to smile.”

“Just that I don’t do it as often as everyone would like,” I muttered. 

“If by ‘everyone,’ you mean your dad, that’s just not true. He loves you exactly as you are.” Unlike the face that stared back at me from the cover of the magazine, my mother’s grin reached her eyes, crinkled them at the corners. She was sunshine to my clouds. Always had been. 

Reaching out, she grabbed my hand, which was still gripping the corner of the magazine. “You will be fine, Cos. Better than fine. You’ve done more for Grado Valley in the last five years than either of us have done in ten. You know all of it like the back of your hand. And you have your brothers. You’ll be more than fine.” She squeezed my hand. I held on tight, as if I was a boy of five and not a man of thirty-two.

Sixty-five acres. Two wineries. A cafe. Cottages. A budding brewery. My siblings’ livelihoods, never mind my own. 

“I know,” I told her. The half-truth tasted sour in my mouth. “You guys don’t worry about a thing. Enjoy Italy,” I said. “You deserve it.” 

That much, at least, was true. If anyone deserved this retirement trip, my parents did. They’d built Grado Valley Vineyards from a card table in the barn to an estate that employed dozens of people on top of my own family. It was incredible, really. 

With a final squeeze, she let go of my hand and waved toward the magazine. “Read it,” she said. “Never mind you look like a model on the cover.” 

I rolled my eyes. 

“It’s a great article. No hint of a cocky son of a bitch at all.”

“Mom!” 

“What? I can curse if I want.”

And she probably did in private, but not around us. Didn’t want to condone bad behavior. Never mind that the youngest of the four of us was no longer a child at twenty-five. Old habits died hard, I guessed.

“You better get going before Dad sends a search party.” I stood and made my way around the desk. Putting my arms around her, I pulled my mother close. Closing my eyes at her familiar scent, I said a silent prayer to Saint Christopher to keep her and my dad safe. I might not have gone to church, much to my mother’s horror. Plus, it couldn’t hurt. 

“Love you, Cos-i-mooh,” she said, pulling away.

“Love you, Mom. Tell Dad not to drive like a maniac to the airport. You have more than enough time,” I said with emphasis on more.

“I will, sweetie. We’re just a phone call away. But I’m not worried at all. You got this.”

She fully believed that. Believed in me.

I just couldn’t fuck this up.

 

Get Pop and Pour here or free with Kindle Unlimited and be sure to come tell me what you think in our reader group on Facebook or on TikTok if you’re there.

Pop & Pour Goodreads Giveaway

With the brand new series, Grado Valley Vineyards, coming this summer, I wanted to kick off a celebration with a fun giveaway. Just add book one, Pop & Pour, to your Goodreads “want to read” list to be entered to win a GVV keychain.

GVV fast facts:

Book in series– 4 total

Book 1 release– July 27th

Book 1 tropes– Grumpy + sunshine, enemies to lovers, boss/employee

 

 

My Foolish Heart: Extended Sneak Peek

 

Bridgewater, Pennsylvania

Chapter 1

Evie

“Shit, shit, shit.”

Of course the contents of my borrowed clutch spill all over the floor as I look for my name. There are only four place cards left on the table. At least I’m not the only guest ridiculously late. Crouching down, I shove my keys back inside.

“Can I help you?”

As I scoop up a tube of lip gloss, a young man in a tux peers over me.

“Yes, please. I was just looking for my table assignment. Fuller?”

Finally cleaned up, I stand just as he claims a folded card from the table. “Ms. Evie Fuller.”

Eh-vee, I mentally correct him. Gotta love a name that one hundred percent of people mispronounce. Reaching for it, I take the card from his gloved hand. “Thank you.”

He points down the hall. “The DeLuca reception is that way.”

It would have been easy enough to find; the Yorkfield Barn only has one event space. I’ve been to two weddings here before, but never, I suspect, one quite like this. Between Enzo’s massive amounts of wealth and Chari’s good taste, I’m prepared to have my breath taken away.

“Evie, thank goodness,” a familiar voice calls just as I begin walking.

Cole and Zara Donovan, one of my favorite couples in the world.

“I thought for sure we were the last ones here,” Zara says as Cole grabs their table card. “I’m so embarrassed to come in so late.” She gives me a quick hug.

“Same. I had some trouble at the restaurant and didn’t even make the ceremony. Was it amazing?”

Problem with owning a family restaurant? Wearing all the hats. I could kick myself for having trusted a new vendor without properly vetting him, but no one expected a hundred-year-old produce supplier to go out of business, just like that.

“It was unbelievable. Enzo teared up when Chari came down the aisle.”

“He did not tear up,” Cole says, coming up to us. “Hey, Evie.”

“Hi, Cole.”

He offers Zara his arm. “There was something in his eye.”

Zara scolds him as we walk toward the main entrance. “And what exactly is wrong with a man crying? That’s the kind of thing we need to normalize. The boy code has to go.”

Cole winks at me as Zara makes a face. It’s clear to everyone he knows that would get a rise out of her, and Zara took the bait.

“What held you guys up?” I ask.

When Zara’s cheeks turn immediately pink, I can’t help but laugh.

“I mean, look at her,” Cole says in their defense.

To be fair, Zara does look amazing. She doesn’t typically wear a ton of makeup, her flaming red hair enough to turn heads all on its own.

“I thought you were coming with Jay?” Zara asks.

It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen or talked to her, restaurant and all, and she clearly hasn’t heard. Not much happens in Bridgewater without most of the town knowing, so I’m somewhat surprised. Although Zara is a newspaper publisher now, so she’s been pretty busy too.

“We broke up.”

Zara stops, and Cole with her.

“Oh no. I’m so sorry.”

Yeah, me too.

“It’s fine. Just happened.”

I almost clarify it’s been ten days and five hours. But that would mean I’m keeping track. Which I obviously am, but wish I wasn’t. “Less than two weeks ago.”

She waits for more, so I offer the sucky details.

“He broke up with me.”

“Are you serious? What an idiot.”

Almost thirty. Single again. Yeah, super fun.

“You guys dated for like . . .”

“A year and a half,” I provide. “But it’s ok.”

Although really, it’s not. The whole thing sucks.

“His sister’s engagement party was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He didn’t understand how I could take time off this weekend but not for that.”

Cole frowns. “Doesn’t his sister live in Newport?”

“Yeah. So it would have been a whole weekend. I can’t afford to take that much time away from the restaurant. Especially not now.”

Zara nods in understanding. “When are they coming?”

We begin to walk again.

“The judges?”

“Mm-hmm.” She takes Cole’s arm again.

“The first two weeks in June. They don’t give an exact date. One day—poof!—they’ll just appear.”

I’ve got big plans for my parents’ restaurant. A way to honor them, and especially my mom, who started it almost thirty years ago. If Mama Leoni’s is ever going to win a Beard Award, this is as good a first step as any. The Cucina Award might not be as prestigious, but it will get us on the map, something a small-town restaurant needs to attract national attention. If I were in New York City, that would be a totally different story.

But that ship has sailed.

“You must be a nervous wreck.”

“Cole,” Zara chides him, “some tact, please?”

He doesn’t seem concerned by Zara’s reprimand. Actually, he seems amused by it. Cole loves to tease her.

“Oh, wow.”

As we get to the entrance, what looks like a movie scene comes into view. Even though I’ve been here before, I’m not at all prepared for the transformation.

Although it maintains that rustic feel—we are in a barn, after all—there’s an elegance to the room that I don’t remember. Wisteria hangs from every ceiling beam with white lights everywhere. Although it’s still bright outside, the barn is dark enough that the lights glow, highlighting crisp white linens and flowers that are all cream or white, their leaves the only color. The effect is magical.

“Did you ever see anything like it?” Zara whispers to no one in particular.

I’m about to respond when I finally pick my jaw up off the floor and realize the groom’s brother is giving a toast.

His voice catches as our eyes lock.

Tristano DeLuca.

The Greek god is even hotter than usual in a tux. Hair so black it almost looks purple, long on top with a lock falling into his eyes. Sharp cheekbones under chocolate-brown eyes. Tristano’s perpetual five o’clock shadow and deep, smooth voice give him the distinction of looking partly like his billionaire brother and partly like the kind of guy you might normally find in this barn. Envisioning him sitting atop a horse with a cowboy hat does nothing to force my gaze away.

“What table are you at?” Zara whispers.

“Five.” I break eye contact with my rival, the owner of the second-best Italian restaurant in Bridgewater, and look at the table signs.

“Me too. I think it’s this way.”

Tristano’s talking again, but I ignore him, as much as it’s possible to ignore someone like him, and follow Cole and Zara to our table.

It’s going to be a long night.

 

Chapter 2

Tristano

“To my baby brother and his wife. Salute.”

The toast finished, I raise my glass, and as the echo of clinks die down, I sit. Next up, Chari’s maid of honor. I listen to her kind words about my brother and her best friend, the woman Enzo will spend the rest of his life with.

“Nice job,” my other brother says, nudging me. “Except for the stumble.”

It’s just like Gian to point that out.

“Thanks,” I mutter back.

My gaze wanders to the reason for my midspeech stutter. Who the hell is she? I’d ask Gian, but the last thing I need is my brother ribbing me for the rest of the night. She’s sitting with friends of Chari’s, so my guess is maybe someone she knows from out of town?

Bridgewater isn’t so small that I know every resident, but between Dad’s pizza shop and my restaurant, I know most of them. And she is certainly not someone I’ve seen before.

I’d have noticed.

An off-white lacy top with only two little spaghetti straps is at odds with the bottom half of her dress. Deep green and pleated, it’s like the reserved half to its flashy partner. Not unlike me and my brother. My mother loves to call me the responsible one, Gian the loose cannon, and Enzo somewhere in the middle.

She peeks at me, pretending to look at the bride.

Caught you.

My eyes move from her dangling gold earrings to her mouth. So damn full. She brushes her long, dark brown hair to the back, fully revealing her shoulders. I imagine slipping a finger under that strap.

“A toast to my best friend in the world and her new husband. To Mr. and Mrs. DeLuca. Cheers.”

This time when she peers up at the head table, she doesn’t look away. When she takes a sip of champagne, my thoughts go from mildly dirty to downright salacious. She’s nothing like my usual type—“borderline trashy,” as my sister calls it. It’s true, I like a woman with a bit of an edge. The good-girl types, like the beautiful stranger who’s now actively attempting to ignore me, usually can’t keep up.

“I can’t fucking believe it. Enzo is married.”

Leave it to Gian to keep it classy.

“How is this a surprise?” I tear my gaze from the mystery woman. “Enzo is crazy about Chari. She’s good for him.” I look at Enzo, sitting to the left of me. He only has eyes for his new wife and is totally oblivious to our conversation.

“I know, it’s just . . . married. Can you imagine?”

Chuckling, I answer immediately. “For you? No.”

Gian is the very definition of a player. He has more women in his life than I have recipes I want to try.

“For me, also no.” But not for the same reason. I’m already married. To the restaurant.

Growing up as the son of a pizza shop owner, I always knew I wanted my own place. But not like Dad’s. Somewhere to showcase all of my parents’ recipes. Some that came with them from Italy, others my mom has tried out over the years. Unlike my nonna, God rest her soul, she likes to experiment with food.

So no, I can’t imagine getting married. I can’t even keep a girlfriend who gets the fact that we can’t go to dinner on a weekend. Or that I have very little free time.

“I’m happy for him, though,” Gian says with a swig of his beer. Sometimes it’s hard to believe only five years separate my little brother and me. Twenty-seven going on twenty-one. He’s something else.

“I am too,” I agree. This time when I glance at the groom, Enzo catches me.

“What are you two talking about?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

It would be easy to tell him we were talking about him and Chari, but Enzo and I don’t make anything easy. Some might call it a healthy brotherly rivalry. Our mother would say I was being a stronzino to tease Enzo on his wedding day.

“I’m not worried about it.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Your mother is watching,” Chari gently reminds us.

Sure enough, from the table closest to us, she’s giving Enzo and me the evil eye. I smile in a way that I know will pacify her, and Mom shakes her head.

I can hear her silent thoughts as if she’s saying them aloud.

Not today, Tristano.

But what Mom doesn’t get, or maybe she does, is that, despite the constant ribbing, I love my brother. Despite the fact that he bought my building after I told him not to, repeatedly. The cost of the property that is now my restaurant is a drop in the bucket for my billionaire baby brother, but that’s not the point.

I’d been saving to buy the damn thing myself, and he knew it.

“I’m going to grab a beer. Anyone need one?” Gian asks.

“Yuengling for me.”

And then I wait for it.

“You know we made the lager formula specifically for you, asshole.”

I try not to smile as Enzo takes the bait. “I know. But I’m in the mood for a Yuengling, if that’s ok with you.”

With a glare, half serious and half exasperated, Enzo turns back to Chari.

It really is too easy. Enzo’s beer—or fake beer, as I like to call it even though it’s very much real—actually tastes pretty good. Normally that’s all I drink these days. Their proprietary “Angel pill” that works in conjunction with the formula Enzo invented takes away the negative effects within an hour. Drink their brand of alcohol with the pill afterwards, no hangover. But sometimes I like to play with my brother a bit. And I really do like Yuengling too.

Without thinking, I find my gaze wandering back to the same place where the woman walked in during my toast. She’s talking to Zara Donovan, still drinking champagne.

I wonder what she’s talking about that has her so clearly excited. My mystery woman is even prettier when she’s smiling. Who the hell is she? I need to find out. Obviously she must know Chari since I’ve never met her before. But I can’t ask my sister-in-law. Not in front of my brothers.

I’ll bide my time.

But before the end of the night, I will know her name. And I will ask her to dance.

There are a lot of things I’m not good at. Poker, for one. Skiing, for another. Hate it, actually. Chari and I have that in common. We both despise the cold.

But cooking and dancing are another matter. My mother taught me to do both. Tonight, I think at least one of those skills will serve me well. And the thought of my mystery woman in my arms is enough to make sitting this way particularly uncomfortable.

Shifting in my seat, I watch.

And wait.

 

MY FOOLISH HEART release March 31st. Sign up for a new release notice here.

Sassy Lassie & Her Highland Vampire

An author friend of mine, #1 Amazon bestselling author Lucy Score, writes small town contemporary rom coms. Spend five minutes in her reader group, Lucy Score’s Binge Readers Anonymous, and it’s easy to see why her books are consistently on the top of the Amazon charts. She is hilarious, and her readers are equally enjoyable. I have firsthand knowledge of the shenanigans in her group too. Recently, I was asked to participate in an event called “Tell Me a Story,” or as it’s affectionally known in the group, TMAS.

The premise is simple. Each month a guest author has twenty-four hours to write a story with input from the readers. They choose elements such as the hero and heroine’s name, the setting, and more. The true coup de grâce of this event, however, is their “Wild Card” element where readers toss out all sorts of items which the author attempts to include in the story. You can likely pick them out from my TMAS tale below, but just in case you’re having difficulty, think “a goat midwife,” Lucky Charms, and a Scotsman afraid of sheep for starters. I managed to sneak in fifteen of their wild cards after subjecting myself to a mashup of every genre I’ve ever written.

Combining Cecelia’s historical and time travel romance with Bella’s contemporary and small town tropes, the ensuing story is a combination of paranormal, time-travel, contemporary and historical, medieval romance. I give you, Sassy Lassie & Her Highland Vampire. 

 

Denoconbrook,Scotland 1293

“Take it, brother. Go.”

I wrap my fingers around the cool green beads as Angus drops the necklace in my hand. Only once before, the day our father died, did I touch this ancient jewel. He gave it to me and bade me keep it safe until he and my older brother returned from battle.

Angus returned, but our father did not.

Cursing myself for the mistake that brought us to this glen, my brother and I hunted on every side with no escape, save one, I slip it inside the sporran at my waist.

At a sudden noise in a nearby thicket, my brother and I both unsheathe our swords. Angus laughs, a rare sound this past sennight, as a flock of sheep flee past us.

Bloody bastards.

Even knowing—or hoping—this will be the last day I ever see my brother, I glower at the man that has been like a father to me these many years.

“Do you remember that day? When Greer took a run at you?” he asks.

That my brother named our sheep was only one of his many peculiarities. Even now, as we evade the men that seek to kill me, he carries our seanair’s bagpipes with him always. Passed down from his father, and then to our father before my brother took possession of them, they’ve no place here, on our journey.

I will miss Angus dearly.

“I remember well,” I say, watching as the flock disappears into the trees. My hesitation near sheep started that day, as my brother loves to jest. He thinks it amusing that I—someone who fought in countless battles, who’d been given the curse of immortality and the ability to kill a man with nothing but a bite from the hated fangs I’d been gifted thanks to our family’s curse—was frightened by the mere sight of sheep.

“If it does not work,” he starts, but I stop my brother, already decided.

“If it does not work, you will name see me again.”

I’ll not burden my brother and his family with my presence. Every witch, and vampire, that is captured and put to death is a reminder that I, the unlucky McGregor to receive our generation’s curse, could be next. Now that the council suspects me, they will not stop until I’m found, tried, and hung.

Nay, I’ll not do that to this man who’s given everything to me. If I do travel through time into the future but fail to mate by sundown, I will not seek out my home when I return.

Instead, I offer him a vow.

“I will break the curse and live out my days in peace, as you will.”

As I reach out my hand, Angus clasps it, pulling me toward him. I’ve not hugged my brother in many years, even though the love I bear for him is greater than any other. But as we embrace now, I repeat the words more firmly.

“I vow to you, brother. I will see to it. I will break this curse.”

The distant call of an eagle means we can outrun them no further. My hunters have arrived.

“’Tis time,” I say, breaking away.

I clutch it tighter in my hand, the jewel that holds the power to send me to another time, to break the spell forever.

Truth? Or legend?

I drop to my knees, taking one last look at Angus to find out.Seneca Lake, Geneva, New York

Day drinking never fails to get us into trouble, and today is no exception. The only question is, which one of us will it be today?

The Society, as we ten girls like to call ourselves because it feels so much more official to say we have a “Society meeting” as opposed to “wine-fueled meetup,” is out in full force.

The occasion?

Geneva’s annual Celtic Festival, otherwise known as one of three events in this small town that is actually fun.

“Let’s count ’em off,” Abby says as we stand in the middle of the street that is blocked off for the festival.

One by one, we count, me shouting “six” when it’s my turn. It only took us four years and countless girls’ trips, plus two minor incidents, to come up with this brilliant system of making sure no girl gets left behind.

Which tends to happen on days like this one.

“To the beer tent?” Kylie, my friend and colleague, asks. One of the four married ladies among us, and only one of two with kids, she tends to want to dive right into the festivities. Technically I’m her boss, as of last month after being made director at the historical society, but we kind of ignore that. If I could give her the job, I would.

“I think the bagpipers are headed to Knox Pub. We should start there,” Charlotte says.

She makes a good point. How often do you get to listen to bagpipes?

“Let’s go there.”

Just as I make the suggestion, a crack of thunder in the distance surprises us all. A sun shower, maybe? It’s a perfect summer day. No rain on the radar whatsoever, which is a good thing since, even though all of the bars and restaurants on Main Street are participating in the festivities, the park three blocks up hosts tent after tent of vendors, not as fun if it rains.

“Knox it is.” Kylie waves us all down the street. But just as she does, I catch sight of Abby’s on the Lake. The owner’s wife is a veterinarian, and I’ve been meaning to text her since yesterday.

“I’ll meet you guys there. I’m gonna run into Abby’s to tell Maryanne about the delivery.”

At brunch I made it a point of regaling the group with yesterday’s events. Even though I haven’t lived at home, on my parents’ farm, for three years, I have the distinct pleasure of being extremely proficient with animal births, especially difficult ones. The doe and her kid would have been in trouble without me, for sure. Maryanne is the only vet for miles, and she’d been in the middle of a surgery when my dad called to tell me the poor doe was having trouble.

“Ok, goat-midwife,” Kylie teases. Originally from the city, she finds my special skill somewhat hilarious. “Don’t get lost on us.”

Being that Abby’s is a block away from Knox Pub, I’m not too worried.

“Or get into any trouble,” Charlotte adds as the group moves away. “There’s always one.”

Making my way past the crowd to the only bar/restaurant on Main Street with a view of the lake behind it, pretty much guaranteeing it to be packed, especially on a day like today, I step inside and ask the hostess for Maryanne.

“You just missed her,” she says, looking over my shoulder. “Look at that.”

Five seconds ago, it was as bright as could be. In the time it took me to come inside, it suddenly looks like the middle of the night. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.

By the time I make my way out to the covered porch, a torrential downpour has everyone scrambling for cover.

I’m no dummy.

If I’m going to get stuck in here—it’s now basically hailing—I might as well do it at the bar. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one with that idea, and the place is already packed.

“Head down to the patio,” a voice whispers in my ear from behind.

The owner. My father’s best friend.

“Hey, Bob. Did you see that?” I ask about the quick turn of the weather.

“I did. Really weird. But I doubt it will last very long. You can head down there to wait it out if you don’t want to get crushed. Help yourself to the bar.”

He’s already moving away from me to assist the hostess, who’s trying to manage the burgeoning crowd. Taking his advice, I slip down the back stairs, ignoring the fact that it’s closed off with a rope, and head down to the ground-floor patio. Normally this would be the most hopping area of the whole restaurant. A huge stone bar, completely covered, offers one of the best views of Seneca Lake in Geneva. Unfortunately, a few years back, some yahoo got totally toasted at this very festival and wandered down to the docks. He fell in and was only saved because someone up here saw the whole thing.

A near drowning convinced Bob and Maryanne to close off the patio for the Celtic Festival, and the annual Wine Week in October.

Speaking of wine, I navigate behind the bar and pour myself a Pinot Noir. Sitting down, I pull out my phone and text the girls, letting them know I’m temporarily stuck in the storm.

Kylie quickly texts back to tell me they managed to get a big table at Knox. Awesome. Ten girls can be hard to find spaces for sometimes.

I love thunderstorms.

Taking my wine as close to the edge of the patio as I can without getting soaked, I look across the lake, a perfect view of my life’s dream staring back at me.

Sunset Vineyards.

After more than a hundred years in one family, it’s up for sale. If I weren’t a poor historian, I’d buy the place in a heartbeat. Growing up in the Finger Lakes region, I know how difficult an industry wine making is, especially here in the north. And I know, because my father told me a million times, it’s a completely impractical idea. But all through high school and college, I worked at one vineyard after another when I wasn’t in class or helping out on the farm.

I know I could make it work.

“Good day, lass.”

The voice from behind nearly scared the bejesus out of me. I turn around, and forget my name. Literally, if someone asked me right now what my name was, I’d struggle.

I have no idea where he came from, but the man standing in front of me is easily the biggest, hottest, sexiest one I’ve ever been in the same room with. In total Celtic Festival regalia, complete with a blue-and-grey plaid kilt and even a fricking sword, he looks like a real-life Jamie Fraser with the piercing blue eyes of Damon Salvatore.

With a pretty authentic-sounding Scottish brogue too.

“Where did you come from?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he walks up to me with the swagger of Uhtred of Bebbanburg.

Clearly, I watch too much Netflix.

Whoever hired him to work this festival deserves a raise. His costume is totally authentic.

“Scotland,” he answers.

I can barely understand him.

Taking a very long sip of wine to buy me some time, I try not to stare.

“So. You’re the real deal?”

Appearing totally confused, he looks me up and down. Way to be subtle, buddy. And he then moves toward the bar. Watching as he glides his hand  under my breath.

Would it have been too much to ask for the guy to be this good-looking, with a Scottish brogue, and normal?

I suppose so.

Apparently I’m the only one who thinks his obsession is a bit strange.

Cleo, Bob and Maryanne’s normally disgruntled cat, makes her way over to the guy and rubs his leg like he’s an old friend. Wouldn’t the Scotsman just lean down and pick her up, holding Cleo like some cherished pet. Traitor. It took years for Cleo and me to get along.

When he finally stops looking at the bar, and Cleo, and turns to me, I forget for a second he’s got one screw loose. Does that really matter? The guy is a literal demigod.

“You’re working the festival, I take it?”

“Festival,” he repeats, as if he doesn’t understand. “Take it?”

I’ve never actually talked to anyone from Scotland before. I had no idea there would be such a language barrier. I can hardly understand him.

“You’re working?” I repeat, nodding up toward the street above us. From here, you can’t see much. But he looks up anyway, staring at the restaurant as if he’s never seen one before.

“I am from Scotland,” he repeats. “From the year of our Lord 1293.”

OK, this dude is nuts.

I’m out.

#

“Please, do not go.”

She’s afraid, with good reason.

But if I’m to gain assistance, I’d gladly do so from a woman such as this one. Long, blonde hair falls loose around her shoulders, marking her an unmarried maid.

Nay, I remember. This is not my time. That her hair is unbound may not mean the same as it did in the past. Some things are familiar. Like the goblet she’s holding, though it’s not made of silver or pewter. ’Tis clear, the liquid inside visible. But most things unfamiliar.

Although the sky is darkened, rain making it difficult to see far, it appears a loch lies beyond us. I am still having difficulty reconciling the swiftness with which the necklace took effect. One moment, I was on the ground, repeating the words necessary to begin the spell, the necklace grasped in my hands.

The next, I opened my eyes, and was here. On this platform. A beautiful woman in very little clothing standing before me.

Her gown, sleeveless but for two thin strips to hold it in place, stops before her knees. Her legs and arms, completely bare.

She did not seem to enjoy my assessment of her, so I turned instead to my surroundings.

But now, I am to lose her.

“Help me,” I implore.

Holding out my hand, knowing I have only until sundown and assuming this is the woman I am meant to mate with, I show her the necklace. With additional time, I could proceed more gently than this.

“My name is Calum McGregor of Clan McGregor. This necklace was given to my ancestors, descendants of the Celtic royal family through the Abbots of Glendochart. Centuries ago, the McGregors were cursed by a woman named Marjorie Buiseid who . . .”

“Was accused of unlawful practice of medicine,” she finishes. “She was banished from the Highlands. The Curse of the McGregor was born.”

“How do you know this?” I ask as she begins to pace.

“Impossible,” she mutters. “What are the chances?”

Finally stopping after a dizzying number of circles around the strange platform on which we stand, she takes a long swig of whatever is inside her goblet.

“My name is Poppy Bisset.”

Poppy. An odd given name, indeed.

“Bisset is an Anglicized version of Buiseid,” she adds.

Impossible. “You are a descendant of Marjorie Buiseid?”

“I am. That story is what got me so interested in history. Learning all about my family lineage and such. I’m a historian.”

“The term is not familiar to me.”

“Historian? You guys don’t use that word in Scotland?”

I don’t wish to remind her that I hail from a different time.

She’s looking at my hand.

“Can I see it?” she asks, stepping toward me.

Her scent, at least, is a familiar one. Vanilla. I smelled it, of course, the moment I opened my eyes, but as she moves closer, the scent grows stronger.

“Remarkable,” she says, looking closer at my hand.

She steps back and watches me, unsure. Scared.

Slowly, Poppy stretches down the collar of her dress. There, resting just above her right breast, is the very same marking.

“Royal lies my line,” we say at the same time.

A saying that goes back, for the McGregors, hundreds and hundreds of years. And yet, she is a Buiseid. Or a Bisset, as she calls it.

“You know what?” She steps back. “I’m gonna need another drink.”

#

“This is much better than the wine to which I’m accustomed.”

What in the ever-loving hell is going on here?

At first, I thought this guy was out of his gourd. But too many strange coincidences convinced me to at least hear him out.

An hour and a half later, I’m starting to question my own sanity.

Of course he’s not from the past. But that jadeite necklace? It can’t be real. I know my jewels, though. It’s a particular interest of mine, along with the same British Isles folklore that started, like I told him, with a peek into my family’s past.

And I swear, it looks authentic. Which would make that thing worth millions and millions of dollars. And then there is his outfit. It’s different enough to make me wonder. Does it look so real because he’s actually from Scotland? The sword too. Completely authentic.

Plus, what about the Curse of the McGregor story?

He even talked about his grandfather, Iain of Glenstrae, who I already knew died without an heir, starting the whole rivalry with Clan Campbell. Although none of it pointed to him actually being from the 13th century, except his speech. He genuinely seemed confused by some of my words.

Of course, if he’s really from medieval Scotland, he shouldn’t understand, or speak, English at all. He acknowledged that he had no idea how that was possible.

Like I said. Completely out there. But so damn sexy.

Every time he looks at me like I’m a bowl of Lucky Charms, just the marshmallows of course, I get serious jitters.

My phone buzzes.

I take it out of my purse, and Calum kind of freaks out. He looks at it as if . . . as if he’s never seen a phone before.

I punch in the four little words that will allay my friends’ worry and ensure they’ll stop texting. For now, anyway.

I met a guy.

Playing along, because why not, I humor him.

“So wine isn’t as good in your time?”
“Nay, lass. It is not.”

“Lass,” I say, jumping off the stool and heading behind the bar to grab the bottle. Actually, we might need a second one. This is one crazy-ass afternoon. “I like it.”

“Do you?”

Still managing to wet my panties despite the fact that he’s seriously unstable, Calum leans toward me. He grabs the bottle of wine. His sword, lying across the bar like some kind of staked claim, catches my eye.

So real-looking.

“I do.”

Because he apparently has no phone, Calum is completely undistracted. He looks at me. This whole time, I’ve had his one hundred percent attention.

Still making eye contact as I sit back down and continue to down the liquid courage, he swings his stool to face me. For the hundredth time in the last hour or so, I wonder if it’s true, what they say about what’s under a man’s kilt?

“Tell me, lass”—the term takes on a very particular meaning now—“about this time.”

Continuing to play his game, I fill him in on the last few hundred years of history. So is this what they mean by starstruck? Not that he’s a celebrity or anything, but since I’ve never actually met a star, this is as close as it gets. I’m talking, but my words are barely making sense, even to me. Calum has this presence. Like he fills the entire deck with his person.

What would a guy like him be like in bed?

“I like how you look at me now.”

Oh boy.

“Do you?” I repeat his question.

Now I’m just shamelessly flirting. With a man who thinks he’s from the thirteenth century.

“Poppy,” he says, reaching out and spinning my stool to face him. If I stood up now, I’d be standing smack-dab in the middle of his parted legs. If his kilt just happened to fall open . . .

“I don’t want to scare you. But I have so little time.”

“By virtue of saying, ‘I don’t want to scare you,’ you’re scaring the ever-loving shit out of me.”

He doesn’t react to that.

“Tell me what you know of the curse,” he asks.

I think about it for a second. “Legend has it that Marjorie cursed the McGregors for all time, that one son in every generation would forever be doomed to relive her pain.”

“And?” he prompts.

“And that’s all I know, really.”

If he looked intense before, Calum is downright freaking me out now.

“I promise I will not hurt you, Poppy. Do you believe me?”

“Hell no. I hardly know you.”

He frowns.

I relent, but not because I actually trust him. I just want to hear the rest of this.

“Ok, you won’t hurt me. Go ahead.”

I reach for the wine glass, our second bottle nearly gone. Oopsie.

“Do you have the word vampire in this time?”

I really don’t like where this is going.

“We do,” I say, hesitant.

“My family was cursed to relive her pain by watching our family members die. Every generation a McGregor son is born who is cursed with immortality. He cannae be killed but instead lives to see his parents, his siblings, his wife and children, if he is blessed with them, die, one by one. I am that son.”

Oh man. I was really prepared to overlook the whole “I’m from a different time” thing. But this? Yeah, no.

I stand up.

But Calum stops me from leaving.

Before I can wiggle away from his grasp, he opens his mouth. And just like that, where normal teeth were a few seconds ago, two fangs appear.

Because I’m clearly in shock, I don’t move. Or run. Or scream. Instead, I stupidly stand there and look at them. My finger lifts up, of its own accord, and reaches into his mouth. So real. Where did they come from?

And then, they retract.

He lets go of my arm.

Still, I do not run.

“Do it again,” I demand.

He does.

This is not real. He is not real.

Except, he is.

“Am I dreaming?”

In answer, he pulls me closer.

“I will not bite you without your permission,” he whispers. “But I’d show you that you are not dreaming.”

I let him kiss me, despite everything that’s happening, because, frankly, I’ve wanted to kiss him from the minute he appeared.

His hands clasp each side of my head as his mouth covers mine. Slowly. Gently. A chaste kiss, and not the kind I wanted from him. Not the kind that will convince me this is real.

So I take the initiative, as one does, and slip my tongue inside his mouth.

The damn breaks.

Apparently it’s the permission he needs to consume me. The undeniable pull between us has no barriers now. My mind is having a hard time catching up with what I just saw. And if Calum is truly a vampire, and the evidence was there, in front of my eyes, this could be really, really dangerous.

I’m not a risk-taking kind of girl. If I were, I’d have taken out a loan and bought the vineyard across the lake. Instead, I’m a go-to-work-at-nine-and-come-home-at-five-and-enjoy-the-weekends-with-her-friends kind of girl.

But not at this very moment.

As his hands explore my body, I encourage them. Kissing Calum isn’t enough. I want more of him.

All of him.

Is that strange?

Yes.

Too soon?

Hell yes.

Bat-shit crazy? After what I just saw?

Yes again.

But dammit, I’m going to find out what’s really beneath a Highlander’s kilt. Slipping my hand under the folds, it’s as I expected.

Except, he’s really, really big.

And hard as a rock.

Does a guy from the thirteenth century get off the same way a guy from this one does? I stroke him, thinking to find out.

But even though I can feel him groan beneath my mouth, Calum pulls away.

Rain pelts the roof of the bar. A flash of lightning lights up the lake. And honestly, Bob could come down any second to check on me.

But I don’t care.

My hand, still wrapped around his cock, falls away. He takes it, looking at me as if I’m a big slice of chocolate-peanut-butter pie. My favorite. Especially since I always eat dessert first.

Always.

“It can be broken.”

I’m definitely not understanding. Not after that kiss.

“It?”

“The curse.”

I’m all in now. My heart knows, even if my mind hasn’t really caught up.

“My great-great-great-grandfather fell in love with a Buiseid. She was forbidden to marry him, of course, given our family’s history. But she knew of the curse. A healer, like her ancestors, she was unable to break the spell for him. She bewitched the necklace instead. Once, and only once, it could be used to travel to another time.”

His hands lift to my shoulders as I move closer, between his legs.

“Why did you use it now? Why not someone before you?”

His eyes are so damn intense. I can’t look away.

“I was being hunted. We were told only to use it when in grave danger. If I didn’t take the necklace from Angus, I would have been killed.”

“Angus?”

I hate how sad he looks all of a sudden.

“My brother.”

“So you broke it? You broke the spell by coming here?”

That’s why he appeared so suddenly, like out of thin air.

“No.”

My stomach lurches.

“It’s broken only if I mate with the woman I’m meant to be with by sunset of this day.”

The matching birthmarks.

That I am a Bisset. And he, McGregor.

This pull between us.

It all makes sense.

“Mate with me?”

He nods. I look across the lake to, ironically, the Sunset Vineyards winery Another coincidence?

I don’t think so.

“Mate?” I ask suddenly. “You mean like marry?”

“Nay, lass.”

I do love when he calls me that.

“A creature such as me mates, but only once. I mean to draw your blood while we have sex. Only then can I stay in this time. As a man, no longer an immortal.”

Before the words are even out of his mouth, I already know I’m going to do it. It’s scary as hell, and totally bonkers, but I have no choice.

I want him. Need him. Like I need, well, wine. Or frosted Pop-Tarts for breakfast.

“Will it hurt?” is my only question.

My pain tolerance is pretty low.

“No. You’ll feel pressure, but that is all.”

I pause for a split second and then reach beneath his kilt once again. Calum closes his eyes, swallowing. That expression, of total and complete vulnerability, from a man like him, whose actual sword that he’s probably used to kill people sits two feet away, slays me.

As I kiss him again, Calum responds immediately. His head tilts for better access. His hands lift my sundress at the same time that I part his kilt. I’m going to make him wear this thing all the time. And call me lass, like every ten seconds.

Because I don’t wear underwear, a fact that doesn’t seem to surprise my medieval Highlander, we’re poised in no time flat. He hesitates, but I don’t let him stop.

When he stands, my back now to the bar, and guides himself inside, I think about telling him I’m on the pill and then realize how ridiculous that is.

He’s a fricking vampire. For now, at least.

Calum fills me so completely, I forget for a second what’s about to happen. Instead, I marvel at the way he uses his hips, and put to rest any notion that they didn’t know how to enjoy themselves in bed in the Middle Ages.

It’s only when he breaks away and pulls my hair to the side as he continues to expertly circle me that my heart does double time.

“I won’t hurt you. I will never hurt you.”

With that, his breath tickles my neck and then, just like he said, pressure. Like he’s giving me the biggest hickey of all time. I grab on to the material at his shoulders for dear life as his hips move quicker and quicker, his lips continuing to suckle my neck.

That whole “orgasm at the same time” thing I thought was baloney?
Out the window as my ass cheeks clench like it’s an Olympic sport. Waves of pleasure consume all of me as Calum finally breaks away, the faintest traces of my blood on his lips.

And he comes inside me with a roar that can only be described as . . . medieval.

I throw my arms around him, wanting to get closer as pulse after pulse takes me. Until finally, I can breathe again. I hadn’t even realized his hand fisted my hair until he let it go.

That’s a happy development. Rough, but not too rough. And oh so talented with his hips. Yeah, I’ll take him.

We stare at each other for a few seconds, enjoying the aftereffects of some pretty mind-blowing sex. Which is to be expected, I guess, when one mates.

“Well?”

He takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, and nothing.

Just two normal, non-vampire teeth.

Neither of us move for a while. Until my phone buzzes.

The spell broken, literally, Calum pulls out of me. I fix my dress as he rearranges that fine kilt of his.

Neither of us say anything at first.

“It stopped raining,” I suddenly realize.

He laughs, and I decide I like that sound. Serious, broody Calum is pretty sexy. But this smiling one is even better.

“You’ve just given yourself to me, after learning I am a vampire from the thirteenth century, as you call it. And ’tis the weather you remark upon?”

“Given myself to you,” I say, catching that particular phrase. “Like sex?”

But Calum is already shaking his head. I knew before I even asked but wanted to be sure we’re on the same page. We are, quite literally, meant to be together.

“Wow.”

“What is this word, wow?”

Oh man, he has a lot to learn.

“Don’t worry about it. As long as you remember to call me lass, we’re all good.”

Calum pulls me up against him, my new favorite spot in the world.

“My bold lass,” he says, kissing me.

“Sassy,” I correct him. “Welcome to the twenty-first century. We don’t really say bold anymore.”

“My sassy lassie.” He winks adorably.

“My Highland vampire.” Two words I never thought I’d hear myself say.

Enjoy this story? I can’t point you to just one book of mine to read next since, as I mentioned, it’s very much a mashup. But here are some options:

Boys of Bridgetwater (small town contemporary, get the prequel free here)Border Series (11 book medieval & Scottish romance, get the prequel free here)Order of the Broken Blade (5 book medieval & Scottish romance)Bloodwite (paranormal romance, Scottish vampire comes to modern time)Kingdoms of Meria (current series, mashup of medieval, Scottish & Viking set in an alternative medieval world)

 

Sassie Lassie & Her Highland Vampire

I had SUCH a blast spending the last 24 hours chatting with Lucy Score’s Binge Readers Anonymous group, otherwise known as BRAs, and writing a short story with their, um, guidance. I’ll post the actually story once it’s professionally edited. In the meantime, here is the Pin board for the story’s inspiration:

What to Read After More Than Sexy by Carly Phillips

You just finished an amazing book, turned the last page. . . and now what?

There’s nothing worse than being immersed in a world only to be jolted back to reality with nothing on your TBR. Or maybe you have LOTS of books on your to-be-read list, but none you’re in the mood for. None quite like the one you just finished. And that’s what you’re in the mood for.

Sure you could spend countless hours scanning Amazon or Barnes & Noble virtual bookshelves, jumping into Facebook groups and looking for that perfect next book. But none are just like the one you finished, and that’s the book you want.

I give you, “What to Read After,” a new blog series that will tackle this very problem. From my own personal reading library, to favorite books from my own readers, we’ll pair books to help you find your next perfect read.

 

 

When one of my readers mentioned More Than Sexy by Carly Phillips as her latest favorite read, I immediately asked what she would be reading next. Another reader jumped in to recommend His Semi-Charmed Life by Lisa Hughey so, voila! And I would be remise if I didn’t mention my own billionaire romance, Billion Dollar Date, a sexy, small town and big city romance all wrapped in one.

Did you read a book after More Than Sexy you loved? Would you like to submit a book for “What to Read After” or a recommendation for one of your favorite books of all time?

 

Comment with answers to any of those questions below!