Daisy Harris's Blog, page 28

Bra-Free Seven Day Challenge, Day 2

My name is Daisy Harris and it’s been twenty-five hours and forty-four minutes since I last wore a bra.

Yes, I’ve survived day one of my Bra Free Seven Day Challenge. This seems particularly important in light of the video circulating around the internet today in which a police sketch artist draws women’s faces first as the women themselves describe it and then as other people describe it. Unsurprisingly, the way women saw themselves was very, very different from how other people saw them.



Watching this video nailed home to me why I’m challenging myself to go braless for seven days. This concept I have that my body is weird and floppy and gruesome if parts of it aren’t hemmed in by boning and underwires is just flat out wrong. I look fine. And, really, no one is looking anyway.

So here’s what I’ve noticed in my first twenty-five hours of bralessness.

1. I pull my shoulders up around my ears all the time like I think someone is going to slap me. Do I always do this? Or is it because I’m trying to use my shoulders to lift my boobs? Either way, I keep noticing I’m tensing and then I force myself to lower my shoulders and take a deep breath.

2. My back feels just as naked as my front. I keep wanting to reach to my sides and tug down the elastic, but the elastic isn’t there. It’s weird.

3. I don’t have to worry about extra skin hanging over the edge of my bra on the sides. So that’s nice.

4. Not a single person has leered or in any way mentioned that I wasn’t wearing a bra. I’m almost 100% sure no one has noticed.

…Fuck, I’m scrunching my shoulders again. Hold on a sec while I sit up straight…

5. My POSTURE! Okay, seriously, I am standing and sitting up so much straighter than normal. I don’t think it’s anything to do with the bra *causing* me to slouch, but now if I want my boobs higher, the best way to do this is straighten my spine and relax my shoulders. I truly believe now that bralessness improves posture.

6. I keep wanting to stretch and exercise. No idea what that’s about but I went for a walk and did yoga twice today. Maybe it’s just a general thing of reviving my self-care, but for some reason I feel more energetic. (It may also be that my husband took the kids out of town.)

7. I’m starting to wonder if I should believe what other people say about how I look, because clearly I myself have no idea.

Thanks for coming around, fair readers. Join me tomorrow for more updates from my bra-free adventure!

**BTW, go watch the Dove video if you haven’t seen it already. It’s really awesome**

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The Bra-Free Seven Day Challenge

So, I basically made up The Bra-Free Seven Day Challenge two hours ago, but I think I’m going to do it. I’m going try and live my life braless for a solid week. Seven days. From two hours and fifteen minutes ago until next Monday, April 22nd, at 2 pm.

Why am I embarking on this journey, you may ask? Well, I read a study today that showed going braless may make breasts actually firmer and higher, and at the very least *does not* make them sag. As a person who’s lived in lifelong terror of saggy boobs, and free boobs in general, this is a big idea. One worth a bit of consideration.

Because my name is Daisy Harris, and I’m a bra addict.

Not just a bra addict, but the worst kind of bra addict–an underwire addict. I like the rough stuff, bound up tightly, clenching firmly under my womanly udders. There’s nothing that makes me feel safer that knowing my boobs are high and contained and don’t move an inch when I jog down stairs.

Something happened recently that made me seriously reconsider what I expected of my breasts, though, the shape I always imagined my boobs were supposed to take. In the interest of full disclosure, I’m going to share it with the world: I got a breast lift.

Now, maybe it’s TMI telling you this, dear readers, but I feel at this point you need to know the whole story. I hate when celebrities go on about how diet and exercise gave them their “new look” when you know they have access to personal trainers, personal chefs, and a team of scalpel-wielding doctors. So now you know my dark secret. At forty, I decided to treat myself to something I’d been wanting for a while. A boob job.

Actually, I’d wanted a reduction, but I talked to three different doctors and all insisted I’d be better off with a lift. Apparently, my giant knockers were all in my head and drooping was the real issue. I took their advice, laid back and thought of England and a few hours later, had (hopefully) the tits of my dreams.

Here’s the thing about boobs, though…they don’t look like what you think they’re supposed to look like. Hoisted and immobile is not the natural state of breasts. And though I was thrilled with the results of my surgery, the anxiety crept in right from the start. Were they wrapped tight enough? Would they sag again if I didn’t keep them in a bra?

I wore a bra (sans underwire because that wasn’t allowed) as tight as possible. In fact, those first days, I wore two bras, one on top of the other in order to feel adequately snug. Night and day, I kept my precious beauties contained. After a while though, I started to have problems.

My subcutaneous stitches pulled apart in places, turning an angry red and seeping. After a course of antibiotics, I saw some improvement, but then it got worse again. The doctor prescribed topical antibiotics and I tried to pull out the infections with gauze. Eventually I developed mastitis, requiring a massive dose of antibiotics, and which knocked my on my ass for almost a week.

Then, in the midst of my tearing my hair out over why I didn’t seem to heal, a good friend of mine suggested–why not go braless?

I had things to do! Places to go! I argued. How could I *possibly* not wear a bra? The conversation went something like this:

“Aren’t you all perky now? Why wouldn’t you go braless?”

“Because they’ll fall!”

“In a few days?”

“But, but…they’ll move!”

“Are you planning on jogging?”

In the end I relented, only because I was terrified of further complications. I figured “what do I have to lose?” I went braless for one day, and the mastitis cleared up almost immediately. In fact, I started going braless at night and the places where my stitches were open healed up right away. Apparently, air is good for skin. And blood flows better when you don’t have a band of elastic wrapped around your chest. Go figure.

I’m sharing this tale of woe because I don’t think enough women understand the simple physiology at work here. I’ve taken physiology (and biology and biochemistry) and it didn’t occur to me that taking off my damn bra would help me heal from surgery. What chance do all the other women who have lifts, reductions, enhancements and reconstructions have?

So today I’m facing some cold, hard facts.

1. There is nothing weird, misshapen, oversized, or droopy about my breasts. They look exactly how they’re supposed to look. Quite literally, since I just had them done.

2. My need to wear a bra has nothing whatsoever to do with how my boobs look and everything to do with an internalized feminine ideal shaped by Pamela Anderson (whose boobs are fake) and bras from the 1950s.

3. Wearing a bra will not stop my boobs from drooping again in the future. In fact, it may make them droop worse.

It’s possible my pre-surgery breasts were floppy not only because of weight fluctuations in adolescence, two pregnancies, and years of breast feeding. They may have flopped, in part, because for twenty six years, I dragged them into a position nature didn’t design, and yanked them higher every chance I got. Not like I feel guilty. The babies no doubt were the biggest factor (combined with my age), but still…

That’s all in the past. The issue for me is now. And NOW, right this second, there is NO REASON for me to wear a bra, and every reason for me to let the girls free. I still have some healing to do, and more than that, I’m in desperate need of psychological re-adjustment.

I’m sitting at Starbucks right now writing this, and in my head, I’m repeating, No body is looking at my boobs… Nobody is looking at my boobs… You can’t tell I’m not wearing a bra… Maybe if I keeping repeating these things for seven days solid, I’ll start to believe they’re true.

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Writing Process: The Big Giant Prop

Every author has their own way of coming up with story ideas. Some start with characters, others with conflict. Some build a world first then create people to inhabit it. Over the years I’ve been writing, I’ve struggled with how to tell the good story ideas from the bad.

What I’ve discovered works best for me is a technique I call the Big Giant Prop. I used to call it The Sword or The Shield, because I believed that any workable prop had to either serve as a sword for the hero (the thing he uses to fight his fears) or a shield (the thing that protects him from his fears.) Though most of my favorite Big Giant Props do serve as Swords and Shields, I’ve tried not to be so literal in my thinking lately. As long as it’s a prop—and it’s big—I’m golden.

How do I know if a prop is both Big and Giant? Well, it has to resonate with me well enough to form a story around it. In College Boys, my prop was the wall that separated Chris’s room from Peter’s. In My Fair Dork, the prop is—you guessed it—Harold’s prodigious wang. Those are two of my favorite story prompts ever because wall=shield and penis=sword. (God, I love really obvious metaphors.)

In my upcoming release, From the Ashes, my Big Giant Prop is less obvious. The story is about a guy, Jesse, who loses his home in a fire. Since the blaze is the inciting incident, it’s easy to think of the fire as a prop big enough to spur a whole book, but it’s not! The Big Giant Prop in From the Ashes was the Bull Mastiff named Chardonnay that Jesse and the firefighter Tomas rescue from the rubble.

Without Chardonnay, I wouldn’t have had a story. I’d have had characters, and a set up, and a location, but I wouldn’t have had any…well, any Big Giant Prop to work around. The BGP is like pole that holds up the tent. Without it, the story is just flapping material.

On the surface, a dog is neither a Sword nor a Shield. But because of her bulk, Chardonnay is capable of protecting Jesse. She looks tough, and she provides false-strength for Jesse to hide behind until he can work up his own power. Hence, sword.

She’s also a shield, because she creates a situation that separates him from other options besides staying at Tomas’s house. Why doesn’t Jesse just find a new place to live? Well, he has a giant dog. Hence, Chardonnay acts as both a barrier and a weapon.

If you’re a fan and you’re ever wondering why I haven’t written a book for a certain character, the answer is always that I haven’t figured out the character’s Big Giant Prop yet. Once I come up with a BGP, I’m off and running. Until then, I’m just spinning my wheels.

How about you? What props have you loved or hated in stories? Which have surprised you?

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From the Ashes–Now Available for Pre-Order on Amazon!

Hey chickadees!

My upcoming Samhain title, From the Ashes, is now available for pre-order on Amazon. Go, now, buy it while it’s hot, hot, hot.

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Growing a Pair: Switching from MF to MM Romance

As an author of both male-female and male-male romance, I’ve been asked a few times how I managed that transition. It’s pretty simple really. I just started writing stories primarily between two men instead of between a man and a woman. My earliest works were all multi-plot books with several pairings, and I’d already started mixing in gay couples with straight before I ever considered writing a straight-up gay tale.

But if I had to do it all again, I would have written my male-male works under a new pen name.

Readers like to know what they’re getting themselves into when they open a book. (Or a file, as the case may be.) When someone purchases a title from KA Mitchell or JL Merrow, they immediately know it’ll be a MM story. With authors who’ve written both genres? Not so much.

Where this gets really complicated is with covers. Personally, I adore covers which feature a half-naked guy standing alone. One dude, oiled and muscled. That’s all I need. Take the cover for my upcoming story, From the Ashes. This cover is as close to perfection as it gets. Sexy man, intriguing background. Hot theme.

But without another man on the cover, who’s to know its MM? Sure, my Holsum College readers know I write MM, and maybe they assume all my books will be stories of man love. But when I first wrote MM? My paranormal MM title Built4It also features a super-hot guy and a mega sexy cover, but I’m not sure MM fans think to read it. Built4It is the single MM title in the middle of a MF series.

Managing two author identities would be a giant pain in the ass, no doubt, but I do wish my titles were more clearly divided up between MM and MF. At this point, if I ever went back to writing MF, I would choose a different pen name. Maybe a drag name like Juicy Valley.

What do you guys think? Different pen names for different subgenres? Or do you like to find all an author’s works under one name?

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Sticks and Stones: Why Branding Matters

I picked up my first nickname in kindergarten on my first bus ride to school. One of the older girls encouraged the entire bus to chant “Jennifer Jane is a pain,” over and over until I cried.

(Here I must disclose that my “real” first name is Jennifer. I don’t really care who knows, since like ten percent of girls born in the 70s and 80s are named Jennifer.)

Anyway, as much as those taunts hurt at the time, they never got repeated. “Jennifer Jane, the pain,” only survived the duration of the bus ride, and was never heard again. Why? Well, it may have been that teachers caught wind of the incident and disciplined the student, or that the girl felt guilty and decided not to tease me again. But mostly, I think it’s because the rhyme was pretty fucking lame.

First off, my middle name isn’t Jane.

Second, nothing about “is a pain” captures the imagination.

Third, the girl who was making fun of me was also named Jennifer.

Nicknames, hurtful or otherwise, only gain traction if they’re any good.

I’ve thought about this issue a lot, and how it pertains to the term “Mommy Porn.” Mommy Porn is a phrase bandied about in the media to describe 50 Shades of Grey and books like it–titillating romance stories aimed at a mature (aka, not teenage) female audience.

Here’s the thing about Mommy Porn. Yes, it’s belittling. On the other hand, it’s a hell of a lot catchier than Erotic Romance.

Mommy Porn is three syllables where Erotic Romance is five. Mommy Porn uses two extremely evocative words (perhaps, in the case of “mommy” THE most evocative word in the entire English language) and pushes them together with contrast and irony.

Erotic Romance, on the other hand uses two words that people don’t truly understand (What is erotic? What is romance?) and puts them together into a phrase that no one enjoys saying out loud. Frankly, I’m not sure most men *can* say erotic out loud without either snickering or getting a boner. Every single time I’ve told a person I wrote erotic romance, I had to explain what it was.

Is that good branding? Is it catchy? Evocative? No. That’s like the name Jennifer. It can mean anything.

Let’s look at some more nicknames, shall we?

In summer camp when I was twelve, I picked up the nickname “Amazon Woman.” Of course, it got shortened immediately to the three-syllable Amazon. This was a well-constructed nickname! God, I hated it. HATED it. It’s bad enough to be a five-foot-three, hundred and thirty pound ball of insecure hormones knocking over boys half my size on the soccer field, but to have it immortalized in a nickname? Horrible!

But the thing was—Amazon worked. Within a week, everyone called me that, even counselors. Who can blame them? There were three other Jennifers in my age group, and they needed a way to tell people apart. In a world of uncertainty, I had a brand that stuck to me like glue all summer.

Luckily, none of the kids I knew from camp went to my school, so I lost Amazon with the start of the school year. It wasn’t until eighth grade that I picked up a new one: Seatbelt.

Seatbelt was more of an inside joke among the boys at my school than a nickname per se, but it gained enough traction that several of my (male) classmates signed my yearbook, “Hey, Seatbelt, Great year!” What did it mean? Well, in eighth grade, a favorite past time of boys in my class was to go around snapping girls bra straps.

Sexual harassment? Maybe. But having boys snap your bra strap was status symbol, and had no boy ever tried to snap mine, I would have been mortified. Sure, I didn’t get as many snaps as the popular girls, but…

Okay, I’m going off topic. Back to explaining Seatbelt.

The first time a boy took pity on me enough to grab the back of my shirt to snap my bra, they jerked in horror, shouting that my bra strap was “like a seatbelt.”

See, I was a chesty girl, and this was before fancy bra construction. In order to keep my boobs in check, my mom bought me bras big enough to have at least three, sometimes FOUR, hooks on the back. (Hangs head in shame.) All the other girls had adorable little training bras, or b-cups at most. Their bra straps were dainty little numbers with one or two clips. Hell, they had FRONT CLASPS half the time! Front clasps!! I’ve *never* been able to wear a front clasp!!

(Yeah. Getting off topic again. Er…I have issues.)

Anyway, the only reason boys ever snapped my bra after that was to see if it really was a Seatbelt as all the guys said. Sidenote: to this day, I will NEVER wear a bra with more than three hooks.

Seatbelt stuck. Why? Two syllables. Evocative. Again, it was branding I hated, and that I would have done anything to escape, but even I had to admit, it was pretty damn catchy.

By tenth grade, I had a new brand I didn’t want, though in this case it was more about reputation than a name. The label was the same as all busty, vivacious, excitable girls earn: Slut.

This time, I wasn’t having it. I was done being a victim of my biology and letting people tell me what I was based on how I looked. I started dieting and managed to drop thirty pounds. Now, I don’t advise anyone get an eating disorder in order to change their image, but I have to admit, it worked wonders.

I changed schools, wore men’s dress shirts I got at second hand stores, put vests on top. Kept my glasses on all the time. Think you can’t help what people say about you? Think biology is destiny? Well, fuck that. No one at my new school even *believed* I’d had sex.

Dressed like Annie Hall, everyone remembered I was in honors classes. I went from “the ho” to “the boss” in a few months. Sure, the branding was a little heavy handed, but what do you expect? I was fifteen. At least I’d learned a lesson that’s helped me to this day: People DO judge you on how you look. Dress accordingly.

As for nicknames, I never earned another until *I* chose one. On a camping trip before college, I admitted I’d always hated my name. Jennifer was too common, too open for interpretation. It required constant image management on my part as I navigated the Jen/Jenny/Jennifer/JenniferLAST INITIAL politics. The kids I was with gave me a great suggestion: Change my name.

What kinds of names did I like? Well, names that were flowery and started with a “D”. If it were up to me, I would have chosen Delilah, but I’d learned enough about image management by then to know that no one would ever use that nickname. Too fanciful, too long.

I went with Daisy. I got to college, and told everyone that was my name. If they questioned it based on my ID card, or paperwork, I just said, “Oh, it’s a nickname. Everyone’s always called me that!”

Since first semester freshman year, everyone has called me Daisy. In fact, Daisy stuck so well that the few times I’ve tried to go back to being called Jennifer I failed. Mostly this is because I’ve tried to use Jennifer in professional settings in which there was already at least one other Jennifer.

The thing about common names is that they leave you open for nicknames. My husband knows about fifteen Dougs, so we have nicknames for each. None are mean, but still… As a Jennifer, you open yourself up to be “Fat Jen,” “slutty Jen,” or “pimply Jen” behind your back.

I’ve never had that problem with Daisy. Daisy is two syllables, easy to spell, unique and fits my personality. It stuck because it’s good.

So here’s the thing—I get that Mommy Porn is offensive. I understand it’s belittling, and wah, wah, wah, we wish people would call what we write something that shows respect for the craft. But if you don’t like what people call you, it’s up to YOU to change it.

Come up with something pithy, cute, fitting, and evocative. Spend time, energy, and money if necessary to promote the name you DO want to be called.

It’s called a brand. If you’re in business, you need one.

Hell, if you’re a person, you need one.

Otherwise, people are gonna call you Amazon your whole life, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.

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A Hate Crime by Any Other Name (Thoughts on Steubenville)

Hi guys,

I’ve been thinking a lot in the past week or so about the Steubenville Rape Case, and I wanted to share some of my thoughts and feelings.

This story affected all sorts of people, leading to discussions across the country about consent, teen drinking, and how communities support or fail to support good behavior in kids. However, when things like this happen, they effect the romance writing world extra acutely.

We’re a community of women, run by and for women. So when a girl or woman is attacked, we rush to her defense.

This case flummoxed me, though. There were videos and texts, a girl who was unconscious for so long I had to wonder why no on called an ambulance, much less the police. Rape with fingers, not penises, and perpetrators who were themselves kids. Initially, I chose not to watch the videos, because I truly believe in peoples’ right to privacy. As far as I was concerned, it was the role of the jury to see the evidence and pronounce a verdict.

But as a romance writer, it’s impossible to ignore something like this for long. And once you start thinking abut rape culture, you see signs of it everywhere.

It wasn’t until I read Henry Rollins’ extraordinary comments on the topic that I began to understand this story well enough to have a feeling other that “GAAAAAH!” As a long-time girl, I can tell girls how to protect themselves. I understand how to act, how much to drink, and what precautions to take to make sure you’re not mugged, killed or raped while out for a night of partying.

Understanding why some boys and men rape? That’s a mystery to me. I don’t feel like I can speak to it, because I don’t understand where it comes from.

In so many stories and posts, even Henry Rollins’, people speak of the boys “getting away with it.” Or how people “allowed this to happen.” As if degrading and humiliating another human being is *so much fun* that kids need to be stopped from doing it, the same way you discourage them from stealing a cookie from a cookie jar.

I’ve always believed that people need to be motivated to hurt other people. Maybe it’s naive, but in my mind, most people don’t want to cause other people pain. Of course, I’m not a boy, and I don’t suffer under the persistent influence of testosterone. From what I understand from stories of female-to-male transgendered people, testosterone makes a person feel angry.

But let’s assume for a moment that hurting people is not, in and of itself, fun. Then, why are boys motivated to take an unconscious girl and perform sex acts with her on camera? As Henry Rollins so deftly pointed out, these boys probably could have found someone to have consensual sex with pretty easily. So, it wasn’t about the sexual thrill.

It was about power. And denigrating someone less powerful than you.

That’s why I’ve started thinking about the Steubenville Rape Case as a hate crime. These boys would have been very much in the wrong even if they hadn’t inserted fingers in the victim’s hoo-hah. In my opinion, the filming of the event was an even worse invasion than the actual bodily penetration.

If the victim had been male and of a different race from the perpetrators, this would have been labelled a hate crime. Ditto if the victim was gay. Taking advantage of a drunk person with less power than you and documenting your denigration of them is all about “putting them in their place” and not at all about sex, fun, good times, or anything else.

So my question is, why do some boys feel the need to do this? What prompts them, nay, almost forces them to act this way? What voices are telling them this is behavior they should overcome their natural aversion to cruelty to perform?

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe boys ARE naturally cruel, and I’m misunderstanding the situation entirely.

Or maybe some boys and men have somehow convinced themselves that girls and women *want* to be abused. How else can one explain all the voices arguing that the victim in this case wanted this to happen?

I get that people get drunk for the express purpose of having sex. Boys and girls alike. But who in their right mind would want to get dragged around drunk, being made fun of and filmed with your legs hanging open? That’s not something anyone could want.

To me, the word *rape* is all wrong. It blurs a line and leaves room for doubt. Assault, hate crime, bullying–these words provide no wiggle room for “did they want it?”

I don’t understand why people perform hate crimes any more than I understand rape, but at least the term gives me a stable enough footing to begin to unravel the issues in my mind. The biggest issue being that many parts of the population believe that women should, in fact, be “put in their place.”

Hate crimes against women are supported on a level that would never be accepted by another minority group. First off, you get not only men, but *women* who argue that women enjoy being treated like second class citizens, and that men are somehow doing them a favor by ensuring women behave like good girls. Then you have pundits and blow hards on the radio using terms like “feminazis” to describe women who dare speak out about women’s rights.

The backlash against feminism is real, and palpable on multiple levels of American life. Women were slaves for most of Western history, why would people think that fifty or so years of (sort of) equality would change that?

The only thing separating the Steubeville rape situation from frat boys who corner a gay kid behind a building or Klan members who intimidate a black person trying to do business or go to school is that somehow, through some complete and total breakdown in logic, men have gotten it in their minds that women somehow *want* to be bashed. Furthermore, that this bashing is part of good, clean fun.

Personally, I think this speaks to some really fucked up things about how we see sex. Even consensual sex. It’s like we think sex is always something of an assault, and the only question is about the degree.

But that’s a blog post for a different time.

For now, I’m going to continue writing stories about nice guys falling in love and being nice to each other. That’s my teeny, tiny protest. But I hope my small worldview will add to others’ and create an avalanche that’ll change the course of how we think about sex.

Thanks for reading,

Daisy

**Note: This article has been edited from its original version to add the modifier “some” in front of men/boys. Clearly, most men and boys would never commit rape or a hate crime. All the men I know are nice and sane, which makes it all the harder for me to understand the motivations of the few men/boys who feel the need to commit this kind of act.**

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COVER REVEAL: FROM THE ASHES!!!!

Check out the SMOKING cover for my August 13th Samhain release! Can’t wait fort this one to come out!

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Book Boyfriend

So, the lovely and talented Marie Sexton called me out for a game. The deal is, you describe your fantasy book boyfriend, and then name other authors and invite them to do the same. If you’ve read my books, you’ve probably figured out by now that I have a type. *Cough* Peter, from College Boys *Cough*. But I figured I’d play along.

Here are the questions:

Hair color and style: Dark hair. Short to moderate length, but NO long hair. *shivers dramatically*

Eye color and facial features: Big, brown eyes. Long nose, narrow face. Glasses.

Height and body type: 6 foot 1.5 inches and 172 pounds. Yes, I know what frame I like down to the exact specifications. I told you—I have a total type. That being tall (but not TOO tall) and skinny.

Visible age: Um… Do I have to answer that question? Let’s just say I like my men young at heart. Or perhaps a better explanation is I like them as young as I imagine myself to be. So…29?

Bangability? Kinky? Bi? Etc?: Mild kink, yes, but not into BDSM. NO DOMS NEED APPLY. If anything, I like my men a tad subby. Oh, and virginal, if possible. Rawr.

Interests: Must be funny, smart, and at least somewhat nerdy. They can be into anything, so long as they are passionate about it to the point of being a geek.

Human or Alien or Shifter?: I’d go for a psy, alien, dragon shifter, cyborg, or vampire, but not for a werewolf. Only cold-blooded supernatural creatures for me! Give me an all-logic/no-emotion hero and I am ALL over that.

Paranormal skills: Extremely muscular tongue?

Natural habitat: In front of the computer.

Special skills: Technological know how is a must. I’m a girl. You can’t expect me to fix my own machinery.

Next up?

Calling Annabeth Albert, Brien Michaels and Cassandra Car. Please share!

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Announcement: UPCOMING NEW RELEASE!

This summer…

from Samhain Publishing…

a FULL LENGTH M/M firefighter romance…

**FROM THE ASHES**

It’s the first book in my new Fire and Rain series, and by far my longest title to date. So if you’ve been wanting more sexy men, more college boys, and more Daisy Harris, this is the book for you! Keep an eye out in the next few months for opportunities to pre-order.

Blurb:

He wanted a boyfriend. What he got was a hero.

When an accident burns down Jesse’s apartment, he’s left broke and homeless, with a giant dog and a college schedule he can’t afford to maintain. And no family who’s willing to take him in.

Lucky for him, a sexy fireman offers him a place to stay. The drawback? The fireman’s big Latino family lives next door, and they don’t know their son is gay.

Tomas’s parents made their way in America with hard work and by accepting help when it was offered, so he won’t let Jesse drop out of school just so he can afford a place to live. Besides, Jesse’s the perfect roommate—funny, sweet and breathtakingly cute. He climbs into Tomas’s bed and tugs at his heart. Until Jesse starts pushing for more.

Their passion enflames their bodies but threatens to crush Tomas’s family. Tomas is willing to fight for Jesse, but after losing everything, Jesse isn’t sure he can bear to risk his one remaining possession—his heart.

 

 

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