Erin Knightley's Blog, page 3

A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words..or is it??

As seen on the Lady Scribes blog today
Ah, photographs.  Isn’t it amazing how easy it is to capture a moment in time? For years and years we can look back at our happy, smiling faces and remember what an amazing time we were having.After all, a picture is worth a thousand words, right? Although…no one ever said those words weren’t bald faced lies.  Allow me to demonstrate.
The week after Christmas, my hubby and I went to Colorado with my mom and dad to enjoy our first taste of the Rockies.  Along the way, we snapped tons of photos. Let us see what the photo *seemed* to be saying, and what was actually happening.
Exhibit One: Dogsledding
See the big smiles? The goofy grins? The adorable dogs? 
  Yeah…look closer and you might just see the icicles hanging from my nose, lol. It was freezing!And I don’t mean ‘throw another log on the fire’ freezing. Oh no – I mean ‘start looking for a dead tauntaun and a light-saber’ cold. Not only am I periodically doing checks of my nose and cheeks to make sure they are indeed still there, but I’m avoiding all liquids despite the altitude due to the fact I’m wearing 17 layers of clothes and the only ‘conveniences’ is a frozen solid block of port-o-pots where I am afraid of recreating the famous scene from A Christmas Story, only substituting my hiney instead of Flick’s tongue and a toilet seat in place of the flagpole.
Exhibit Two: Snowmobiling
What could be more delightful than snowmobiling across the continental divide? When the concierge set this up, she assured me, my hubby, and my soon to be 65 year old dad that we would have a looovely tour.  And just look at these pictures! Majestic mountains, gorgeous blue skies, powdery snow—what more can you ask for?

Oh dear lord—thank heavens for these pictures, because those precious few moments were the only time in the entire 2 hour tour that I wasn’t hanging on for dear life as the guide held the pace at 50 miles per hour (literally), tearing through the mountainous terrain like a bat out of you know where, all the while hollering warnings over his shoulder to ‘turn with your bodies!’ so not to flip the death, I mean snowmobile over on the hairpin turns. The only thing I saw on this trip (besides my life flashing before my eyes) was my hubby’s back and the green and white blur of the forest zooming by in the periphery. Scenes from “What About Bob” can’t help but come to mind as I scream across the tundra, holding on for dear life and yelling “I’m on vacation!” into the howling wind. 
By the time we were done, I felt like I had been tossed in a bouncy castle with 40 five year olds hopped up on Kool-Aid and birthday cake. Toss in the fun factor of certain death if we miss-steered and the lovely, ever-present exhaust fumes and you have a day that was MADE of win.  
Yes, that was sarcasm.  Oddly enough, my hubby had the time of his life on this excursion, laughing as my dad and I clung to each other and wept with relief when it was over.  Oh, and side-note—I’m totally using that picture in our next Christmas card to brag about the fab vacation we had ;)
Exhibit Three: Skiing
Ah, the idyllic pastime of the wealthy. So chic, so fabulous, so ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.’ Notice the gorgeous weather and picturesque, snow-covered slopes behind us. Surely hot chocolate and cavier are waiting for us beside the cheery fire in the lodge, no?
 
NO. God no.  I think ski boots were originally invented by the military as a torture device designed to mimic the yoga chair pose for hours on end, leaving one to wonder if, in fact, muscles actually canturn to jelly. Or molton lava. 
Then someone said ‘Hey! Let’s strap a pair of waxed sticks to these babies and throw ourselves down the side of a mountain!’ Then someone else said, “Why don’t we have a thousand other people on the slopes with us, so we can add in evasive maneuvers and on-the-fly physics calculations to spice up the day?” And then someone else said, “But wait! Lets put mortally wounded people on stretchers and have them be continually taken down the mountain, so everyone can see exactly how death-defying their recreation of choice is!”
Yay! Thanks guys – you know how to make for an awesome day of near-death experiences. And here’s the real trick: Someone figured out how to get you to drop hundreds of dollars on rental equipment and lift tickets, and still manage to get you to pay $15 on two hotdogs.

So there you have it—pictures may very well be worth a thousand words, but in my experience, those words are all LIES. But you know what? I find I'm okay with that, lol. Because when I'm old and grey, I want to be able to look back on these serene pictures and reminisce about what a lovely trip we had to Colorado that one year, shaking my head as I wonder why it was I never went back.
Now tell me, do you have lying pictures from your vacations too? Or have you ever done something you were stoked about, only to have it turn out to be waaaay different than you imagine?
(I feel I should point out that I really did have a wonderful time, especially since I was able to spend such quality time with my parents. But me and Colorado? We’ve met, shaken hands, and parted ways. That goes for extreme sports, too! ;) )
PS: If you’d like to see the one picture that is one hundred percent accurate representation of how I felt at that exact moment, here you go:

As seen on the Lady Scribes blog todayAh, photographs.&nb...

As seen on the Lady Scribes blog today
Ah, photographs.  Isn’t it amazing how easy it is to capture a moment in time? For years and years we can look back at our happy, smiling faces and remember what an amazing time we were having.After all, a picture is worth a thousand words, right? Although…no one ever said those words weren’t bald faced lies.  Allow me to demonstrate.
The week after Christmas, my hubby and I went to Colorado with my mom and dad to enjoy our first taste of the Rockies.  Along the way, we snapped tons of photos. Let us see what the photo *seemed* to be saying, and what was actually happening.
Exhibit One: Dogsledding
See the big smiles? The goofy grins? The adorable dogs? 
  Yeah…look closer and you might just see the icicles hanging from my nose, lol. It was freezing!And I don’t mean ‘throw another log on the fire’ freezing. Oh no – I mean ‘start looking for a dead tauntaun and a light-saber’ cold. Not only am I periodically doing checks of my nose and cheeks to make sure they are indeed still there, but I’m avoiding all liquids despite the altitude due to the fact I’m wearing 17 layers of clothes and the only ‘conveniences’ is a frozen solid block of port-o-pots where I am afraid of recreating the famous scene from A Christmas Story, only substituting my hiney instead of Flick’s tongue and a toilet seat in place of the flagpole.
Exhibit Two: Snowmobiling
What could be more delightful than snowmobiling across the continental divide? When the concierge set this up, she assured me, my hubby, and my soon to be 65 year old dad that we would have a looovely tour.  And just look at these pictures! Majestic mountains, gorgeous blue skies, powdery snow—what more can you ask for?

Oh dear lord—thank heavens for these pictures, because those precious few moments were the only time in the entire 2 hour tour that I wasn’t hanging on for dear life as the guide held the pace at 50 miles per hour (literally), tearing through the mountainous terrain like a bat out of you know where, all the while hollering warnings over his shoulder to ‘turn with your bodies!’ so not to flip the death, I mean snowmobile over on the hairpin turns. The only thing I saw on this trip (besides my life flashing before my eyes) was my hubby’s back and the green and white blur of the forest zooming by in the periphery. Scenes from “What About Bob” can’t help but come to mind as I scream across the tundra, holding on for dear life and yelling “I’m on vacation!” into the howling wind. 
By the time we were done, I felt like I had been tossed in a bouncy castle with 40 five year olds hopped up on Kool-Aid and birthday cake. Toss in the fun factor of certain death if we miss-steered and the lovely, ever-present exhaust fumes and you have a day that was MADE of win.  
Yes, that was sarcasm.  Oddly enough, my hubby had the time of his life on this excursion, laughing as my dad and I clung to each other and wept with relief when it was over.  Oh, and side-note—I’m totally using that picture in our next Christmas card to brag about the fab vacation we had ;)
Exhibit Three: Skiing
Ah, the idyllic pastime of the wealthy. So chic, so fabulous, so ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.’ Notice the gorgeous weather and picturesque, snow-covered slopes behind us. Surely hot chocolate and cavier are waiting for us beside the cheery fire in the lodge, no?
 
NO. God no.  I think ski boots were originally invented by the military as a torture device designed to mimic the yoga chair pose for hours on end, leaving one to wonder if, in fact, muscles actually canturn to jelly. Or molton lava. 
Then someone said ‘Hey! Let’s strap a pair of waxed sticks to these babies and throw ourselves down the side of a mountain!’ Then someone else said, “Why don’t we have a thousand other people on the slopes with us, so we can add in evasive maneuvers and on-the-fly physics calculations to spice up the day?” And then someone else said, “But wait! Lets put mortally wounded people on stretchers and have them be continually taken down the mountain, so everyone can see exactly how death-defying their recreation of choice is!”
Yay! Thanks guys – you know how to make for an awesome day of near-death experiences. And here’s the real trick: Someone figured out how to get you to drop hundreds of dollars on rental equipment and lift tickets, and still manage to get you to pay $15 on two hotdogs.

So there you have it—pictures may very well be worth a thousand words, but in my experience, those words are all LIES. But you know what? I find I'm okay with that, lol. Because when I'm old and grey, I want to be able to look back on these serene pictures and reminisce about what a lovely trip we had to Colorado that one year, shaking my head as I wonder why it was I never went back.
Now tell me, do you have lying pictures from your vacations too? Or have you ever done something you were stoked about, only to have it turn out to be waaaay different than you imagine?
(I feel I should point out that I really did have a wonderful time, especially since I was able to spend such quality time with my parents. But me and Colorado? We’ve met, shaken hands, and parted ways. That goes for extreme sports, too! ;) )
PS: If you’d like to see the one picture that is one hundred percent accurate representation of how I felt at that exact moment, here you go:

Power of Love

I have been asked many a time throughout the past few years why I write romance. Why the fluff and bodice ripping (yes, people actually say that)—why not write something more true to life? Why not write a literary masterpiece that is thought-provoking and haunting? Or a mainstream fiction a la Vince Flynn and Dan Brown? Truly, the answer is simple: I love love.  When I read, I do so to escape to a better place, not one rife with the bad or depressing things of this world. I’m not pretending it’s not there (well, maybe a little), and I’m certainly not saying there is anything wrong with writing books that cover those parts of life, but for me, I want people to feel better when the finish the book than they did when they started.Is that silly? Some people may say yes. But I think bringing a little light into a pretty dark world is a good thing. If I can make one person sigh with happiness, or believe in love, or read ‘the end’ with a big smile on their face, then I have succeeded.Truly, I don’t care how other people measure success—for me, that’s it. A happy review, a heartfelt email, a Facebook post filled with smiley faces—those are the measuring sticks I pay attention to.  And to all of you who have reached out to me in  these ways or any other, let me just say now, thank you from the bottom of my heart :) So, before anyone poo-poos romance and its roll in society, I hope they’ll pick one up someday.  Remember what its like to feel the first blush of love, to meet someone’s eyes for the first time, to yearn for that first kiss, and to hope for a happily ever after. Because, my dear reader, we all deserve an HEA, one way or another :)

Disconnecting from Overconnection

**As seen on LadyScribes today**
Ahhh – the internet.  That great nameless, faceless void in the sky that simultaneously keeps us all connected while keeping us apart.  It is almost impossible to assimilate the fact that children born in the last decade have never known a world without this sort of technology. And really, not just the internet. Cell phones have completely revolutionized the world as we know it. In many, many senses, that is a great thing. No more being stranded on the side of the road, hoping a stranger will stop and help. No more wondering if you need to buy milk, or if there is already some at the house. No more angst about whether a loved one is alright when they are a bit late. For this worrywart, those are all good things.But in my opinion, we will never again have a true notion of solitude. We are connected to the rest of the world in a way that goes beyond a healthy relationship, into the obsessive, all up in each other’s business sort of way, where you are never alone.  People can’t even end a conversation before going to the bathroom! (Oh, don’t get me started on that). I think the result is, we have forgotten how to be alone. How to be quite, and still, and patient.  With our smartphones in our hands, we have the internet, games, messaging, email—enough instant entertainment to keep a person occupied for decades.  Do we even remember the days when waiting in the doctor’s office meant exactly that—waiting? Or when we left the house, and we wouldn’t know who called until later that evening, when the red light was blinking on the answering machine?When I think of life before cell phones, I think of the bliss of living in the moment. Multi-tasking was rubbing your belly while patting your head (which actually works out better than juggling emails, writing, and all the other tasks we try to cram into the same moment in time), and messaging was sitting down to write a letter using pen, paper, and *gasp* cursive.  There was no glow of electronic screens constantly bathing my face, no pings and beeps and wooshing punctuating the day. Yes, I was young and with less responsibilities, but I know life was slower for everyone back then. And quieter. And less chaotic.  I realized recently that my cell phone is almost never out of my sight. Ever. It’s the last thing I look at before I go to bed, the first thing when I wake up, and my constant companion as I navigate the 50 million tasks of the day.And you know what? I don’t like that anymore.  I’ve decided that I want to be out of contact a bit. I want to walk away from that siren device, cutting the invisible string that ties us.  I want to be unavailable for a few hours, and out of touch on occasion.I want to remember what solitude feels like. Not loneliness—just privacy. Holding a few things to myself instead of sharing so much on a constant basis. I want to have something to talk about with friends when I see them that they haven’t already read on my Facebook page or on Twitter.  I miss sharing good news in person—don’t you?So, for a little while, I’m going to try to take a step back. I’m going to leave my cell phone on the kitchen hours and walk away when I’m in the house. I’m going to turn off the notifications, choosing instead to check on things in my own time.Who knows—maybe I’ll relearn what it feels like to not instantly know what tomorrow’s weather is, or when Genghis Khan roamed, or how many movies Clint Eastwood has directed. Crazy, huh?
So tell me—how attached are you to your cell phone? Are you ever more than a stones’ throw from it? Do you remember what it was like before they were invented?  I’ll warn you in advance that I’m working the day job today during the Christmas rush, so I won’t get back here until this evening. Fitting, no? ;)

Learning to be Gracious

This weekend, I had the honor of signing beside Nora Roberts at her husband’s book store in Boonsboro, Maryland – Turn the Page. In all, there were about eight authors present for a signing that was meant to be from noon to 2pm. I say ‘meant’ because we stayed until after 4:30, when the last person waiting in line finally got her books signed and left. Just look at all those people! That line was steady for 4.5 hours!
For me, an author who is still learning the ropes, I couldn’t ask for a better role model than Nora.  Even though she was feeling under the weather, she was there early, dressed to the nines and looking fabulous. She sat there for the entire 4 and a half hours, only getting up once for a very short break.  She smiled at each and every fan, patiently signed their stacks of books, and posed with a bright smile with absolutely everyone who asked. Y’all, Nora is a super star. She definitely didn’t have to do the signing. Yes, it was wonderful for her family’s business, but truly she could never write another book again and still enjoy a successful career. But she did it because she seems to genuinely love and respect her fans. It’s that respect that made an impression.
And Nora isn’t the only example of graciousness in my business. There is Sabrina Jeffries, who always makes time for fans and fellow authors alike. Even before we became friends, she was happy to offer up her knowledge of the business to us newbies in hopes of helping her fellow writer get ahead. She is incredibly busy, yet she took the time to write a cover quote for me. That’s a big deal, and it is a kindness I will never forget.  There is also another author, who shall remain nameless (since I don’t want her inundated with requests!) who went way above and beyond for me. My friend was turning 40, and this author was her very favorite. When I appealed to her for a signed book for her birthday, offering to send the book or money, the author instead sent a big package including several signed books for my friend, an actual birthday card, and even a few signed books for me! I mean, how incredibly generous and awesome is that?I’m so blessed to have these incredible women as role models. It is my hope to emulate them in their graciousness, kindness, and even their work ethic. I hope to always give my readers a warm fuzzy so they know just how important they are to me. I am grateful for each and every one of you! Just as a reminder, I am always happy to send a free signed bookmark and swag to my fans – just email a request to erin@erinknightley.com.  And if you, as a reader, ever want to give back to your favorite authors, I hope that you will take a moment to post a nice review or tell your friends about them. Spreading the word is the very best thing you can do for the authors you love :-)  So tell me—who has been a role model to you (no matter what you do in life)? A teacher? A parent? A fellow coworker? 

A Taste for Scandal... and Chocolate Puffs!

As seen on Lady Scribes today

Psst. Hey you.
Yes, you—the one staring at the computer screen.  Do you know what today is?
It’s Release Day for A TASTE FOR SCANDAL!
And as thrilled as I am to have my 2nd book finally available,  I am determined to celebrate in as genteel a fashion as possible. You see, in the six months since my debut, I have matured leaps and bounds as an author, in more ways than one.  I mean, you’ll no longer find me running through the aisles of a certain large bookstore, dancing like a fool.
Oh no, this time around, I shall be all that is graceful and refined. 

With that in mind, I have created a little video for your viewing pleasure. In it, I’ll show you a super quick and oh-so easy recipe that I found while researching late eighteenth and early nineteenth century cookbooks.  
This particular recipe happens to be special, since it is the very first one that my baker heroine teaches her rakish earl hero. (PS – I didn’t set out to write a Regency foodie romance, but somehow that’s exactly what happened!)
So, from the Duchess of Delight, Her Grace Erin Knightley (who steadfastly promises not to make a cake of herself), I hope you enjoy:


 Amazon  |  Barnes & Noble  |  Walmart  |  iTunes

First the Good News... and then the Other Good News!

It's been a long time in the making, my friends, but with exactly one week until the release of A TASTE FOR SCANDAL (squee!!), I am finally revealing the single greatest giveaway in the history of giveaways! (Seriously-the $450 million powerball has nothing on this!) 
Take a deep breath, rub those hands together with anticipation, and prepare to be blown away:

Click HERE for the Historical Romance Palooza page!

Now, on with today's blog.

When I was growing up, there was one of those old school Walmarts on the outskirts of town, relegated to the back corner of the sparsely populated shopping center.  In those days, there were no gleaming, towering Super Walmart behemoths, stocked with every food and sundry imaginable. No crisp-screened televisions lined the back, and the food section was comprised of peanut butter, Russell Stover assorted chocolate boxes, and enough Cheetos and Doritos to turn stain the fingers of half the population of Oldham County.

In short, it was kind of a dump.

Not that I cared. As an awkward, frizzy-haired girl with hand-me-down clothes and a gap between her front teeth big enough to store a popsicle stick, I never felt particularly out of place. In fact, I liked the prospect of exploring the toy section, skirting the odds and ends in the hardware department, and smelling the many scents of White Rain shampoos and conditioner.  The yellow-hued lights and dingy floor tiles were no matter to me—the prices there were such that I actually had a prayer of ending up with a new sweatshirt or small toy. 

My sister, on the other hand, experienced shame and humiliation on an epic scale anytime Mom stopped in. She hated Walmart, despising the prospect of being seen by someone of consequence. Never mind the fact that, in order to be seen, the seer would also have to be at Walmart. It was social ruin in her head, and that was reason enough to remain slumped in the backseat of our car while Mom and I shopped.

I didn't get it. Why wouldn't you want to pay low prices and get most everything you needed in one trip? Those excursions with my mother would lead to trips there on my own. When I actually started buying books, as opposed to just getting them from the library, it was my first stop. By then, the stores had transitioned to the bright and airy places we know today, with happy-face signs and miles of aisles to peruse. The prices were unbeatable, and the selection tended towards the authors I liked to read. Even when I was an Environmental Specialist and I used to make supply runs for twine, duct tape, and the odd tarp or folding knife, I'd always pause by the books to to pick up a good read for my hotel room.

Well it appears, my dear readers, that my long time loyalty has come around. I am thrilled to announce that I will not only just be in Walmart as a shopper—I'll soon be on their shelves! That's right—A Taste for Scandal will be in Walmart this December (as well as Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million, and all the online retailers.).  I don't know if I can properly convey my excitement about this—it has been a long held dream to see my books grace those shelves. Hopefully it will make it easier for readers to discover me *fingers crossed*.
My only question is... will I be able to get my sister to join me in our local store to giggle over it? ;)

So tell me - where do you tend to buy your books these days?

Ghosts of Thanksgiving Day Past

-->As posted on Lady Scribes today

This year, my hubby and I will be avoiding the Thanksgiving traffic jams, and are opting to stay home for Turkey day.  We’re thrilled to avoid the nearly ten hour drive to our hometown, even if it does mean missing out on time with our loved ones. And it’s not like we won’t see them—the world is a better place through the magic of Skype and FaceTime :)When I was young, however, staying home wasn’t an option.  Oh no, every year we would pack up the car and take the 800 mile trek up to see my mother’s family in the suburbs of Chicago.This was in the days before minivans, personal game devices, and that miracle known as the DVD/TV combo. It was just me, my older siblings, and my parents jammed into a car like the poor schmucks we were, pretending to like travel Yatzie minus two die and lap-top card games of War and Go Fish.The trip seemed utterly interminable, but eventually we would pull into my grandparents short driveway, not even coming to a full stop before the doors were thrown open and we exploded from the car like popped corn. Once inside, the familiar sound of football was the soundtrack to our reunion as everyone hugged Nana and Papa, and us kids covertly scouted out the ever-present candy dishes. There, sugar coated gumdrops and forbidden mini candy bars languished, calling to us like the sirens they were.  To us, the consumers of whole wheat bread and all natural peanut butter, my grandparent’s house was the Mecca of all things deliciously bad for us.Wildwood cream soda would soon appear, blue and red striped bendy straws poking from their open tops. Salami sandwiches were next, complete with Italian dressing and insanely delicious white bread.  Even as we ate these sinful treats, my sister and I would already be focused on the next morning—Thanksgiving!—when we’d wake up to a box of Dunkin Donuts, procured by our Papa and complete with the cream filled powdered donuts that were surely the most wonderful things on the planet.With powdery lips, full bellies, and the waning sounds of the Macy’s parade in the background, we’d get ready to head to my uncle’s house, where even more family awaited. There, the aroma of turkey greeted us before we even opened the door, as did the whirl of a hand mixer and the din of laughter. Our cousins, seen once a year like clockwork, would greet us at the door, and the rest of the afternoon would be a game of dodging responsibilities, namely setting the table and carrying folding chairs from the basement.The food would be plentiful, the conversation boisterous, and the passage of time inevitable.  This yearly ritual, repeated for at least a decade, would set the bar for Thanksgivings for the rest of my life.  It’s been years since I’ve made it back to Chicago, and even longer since I was a carefree kid, happy to enjoy the moments that would linger in my memories for the rest of my life, but I’ll never forget those trips of yesteryear.This year, I may not repeat the traditions of my childhood, but I’ll certainly be thinking about them. As my husband and dear friend join me at my own dining room table, I’ll be happy to make more memories to look back on years from now. Although. . . just for fun, I may see if I can talk my husband into an early morning Dunkin Donuts run ;)
What are your favorite Thanksgiving memories? Do you have a certain food or dish that takes you back? And are you planning on braving the holiday traffic to visit others this year?

A House is a House is a ...

Growing up in suburban America, my idea of what constitutes a mansion was formed mainly by the Fresh Prince of Bel Air and Dallas. Big, airy houses with fluted, two-story pillars framing fancy double doors. They had vaulted ceilings and pools out back and extra room for a long suffering servant or two.That’s not to say that I didn’t know about castles and manor houses in lands far, far away, but my brain simply couldn’t imagine the true scale of these places.  Corridors so long and winding one could become lost? Preposterous. Wings so far apart that you could have a ball in one wing and sleep soundly in the other? Crazy talk.  I honestly couldn’t picture these things when reading my beloved historical romances, set in the sprawling country homes and massive townhouses of England.But a few years ago, I got my first glimpse of just such a home when my mom and I decided to visit the Biltmore House in Asheville North Carolina.  And my, oh my, did it open my eyes! The scale? Beyond massive. The house and furnishings? Spectacular does not begin to describe it. Walls covered in hand tooled leather? Check. A dining hall with its own pipe organ? Check. A huge, ten-foot deep indoor pool? Check. Servant’s quarters large enough to house thirty-five permanent servants and another thirty visiting servants? Check.  In a word? Magical :) Visiting America’s largest private home is an event, one that I hope you have the chance to participate in some day.  This time around, I got to enjoy a day with my friend, critique partner, and fellow Regency writer Catherine Gayle.  It was her first time there, which made it doubly fun for me.  We were there for almost six hours, and I swear we only sat down once, and that was for lunch (in the refurbished stables, mind you!). The rest of the time we were walking, walking, walking—and even then, we only saw the public parts of the house! This trip was a total blast, and I am feeling all kinds of inspired.  I think, perhaps, my heroine may get lost on the way back to her room on a dark and stormy night... ;)For a little treat, here are some of the pictures I took while on our trip. Oh, and the best part? Totally a tax write off! Gotta love research, baby!
So tell me - have you been to the Biltmore? Or any other truly massive old home? If not, where would you like to visit?

Woohoo - Today's the Day!!

Guess what today is...(No, not election day well. Well, yes, it is that, but that's not nearly as exciting as....)
The release day for MISS MISTLETOE!!!I'm so excited about my very first novella :-)) Miss Mistletoe picks up where More Than a Stranger left off—at Evie and Benedict's wedding! Evie's cousin Cece has come to witness the nuptials, only to be confronted with the one man she had hoped to never see again . . . 
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Stifling a gasp, she jumped around the corner into the drawing room. She pressed herself against the wall, keeping out of sight as she tried to breathe past the tightness of her throat.</div><div class="04BodyText">Her eyes were playing tricks on her, surely. She blinked several times, then rubbed them for good measure. Holding her breath, she leaned cautiously forward until she could just make out the people in the hall. There he was—Finn!</div><div class="04BodyText">She ducked back out of view, pressing both hands to her face in horror. What was he even doing here? He was good friends with Richard, of course, but had more of a passing acquaintance with Evie. . . . Cece dropped her hands. Of course—he had gone to Eton with Richard. Mr. Hastings was a friend from Eton. She nearly groaned. Yes, wouldn’t it be just her luck that they were all perfectly delightful friends with one another.</div><div class="04BodyText">Mercy be—<span class="ITAL">how</span> was she going to face him?</div><div class="04BodyText">She closed her eyes against the fresh wave of mortification that washed through her. She didn’t want to think on that night five years ago, didn’t even want to conjure the memories of the scent of cinnamon flavoring the air, the swirling snow outside the windows, the glossy green bough of <span class="ITAL">Viscum album</span> hanging above her. . . . It was over, in the past—she had practically been a child, for heaven’s sake!</div><div class="04BodyText">The sounds of the group began to recede as they made their way outside. She had to get herself together; she couldn’t very well miss the wedding just because the man who represented the single most awful moment of her entire life just happened to be party to the festivities. She was a grown woman. She had matured leaps and bounds since that embarrassing, ill-advised indiscretion five years ago.</div><div class="04BodyText">Although not so much, apparently, that she could face him. No matter how sternly she told herself to leave her hiding place and make her way to the carriage, she could not seem to separate herself from the wall.</div><div class="04BodyText">“Miss McCrea?”</div><div class="04BodyText">Cece sucked in a startled breath. She’d know that smooth, dark timbre anywhere. It had haunted her dreams for half a decade, after all. Why, oh, why was he the one looking for her? She shook her head. It didn’t matter.</div><div class="04BodyText">“Miss McCrea?” he said again, much closer this time.</div><div class="04BodyText">She couldn’t just stand there, cowering in the drawing room like some sort of criminal. She was a proper woman now, and she had to act as one. Straightening her spine, she took two swift breaths, licked her lips, and emerged from her hiding spot.</div><div class="04BodyText"><br /></div><div class="04BodyText" style="text-align: center;">*** </div><div class="04BodyText"><br /></div><div class="04BodyText"> I hope you enjoy this light, sweet Christmas read—it's specially written to make you smile during the rush of the Christmas season :-)  <b>Have you ever kissed anyone special under the mistletoe? Fess up!  Or better yet, if there is someone you wish you could find beneath the mistletoe? </b></div><div class="04BodyText"><br /></div><div class="04BodyText">And on a side note... am I the only one who is reeling about the fact that it is already November?? </div><div class="04BodyText"><br /></div><div class="04BodyText"><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/miss-..." target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a></div><div class="04BodyText"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Miss-Mistletoe-..." target="_blank">Amazon</a></div><div class="04BodyText"><a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/miss..." target="_blank">iTunes</a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span><b> </b></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com...' alt='' /></div>