Eliza Lentzski's Blog

Half-Court Heat

I started listening to Quinn Riley’s narration for Hoops & Heartstrings yesterday and fell in love with these characters all over again. And it made me want to post the first chapter to the sequel, Half-Court Heat. Read at your own risk! (NSFW)

Mexico

The russet brown bikini accentuated her deep mahogany skin like a sunset reflecting on calm waters. The suit’s rich, earthy tone seemed to glow against her complexion, highlighting the natural radiance of her skin. It was as if the color was chosen specifically for her, perfectly harmonizing with and illuminating her beauty in the late afternoon sunlight.

Hell. Knowing her, the color had been picked just for her.

My gaze traced the contours of her reposed form. The thin string crossing her back was doing an admirable job of keeping her generous breasts in check. I silently admired the strength in her shoulders and the gentle dip before the small of her back. A bead of sweat had collected in that shallow hollow, and I felt the strangest urge to lean in and lick it away, craving the taste of salt on her skin.

My eyes continued their indulgent tour—up the smooth curve of her backside and down the steep drop of her hips. The way the fabric of her bikini bottoms disappeared into those deep curves was seriously distracting. Even though we were alone, I felt my cheeks warm.

“Enjoying the view?”

I cleared my throat and adjusted my sunglasses on the bridge of my nose, fully aware I’d been caught. I had hoped the mirrored lenses might conceal the path of my stare, but there was no hiding from her.

“You bet I am,” I shot back.

Eva was lying on her stomach along the ledge of our private swim-up pool, her chin resting on her folded arms. She looked utterly peaceful. No competitions, no cameras, no adoring fans. Just Eva, relaxed in the sun with that easy smile.

“Do you need more sunscreen?” I asked.

Her lazy grin broadened. “Sounds like a ploy to get your hands all over me.”

“I care deeply about your health,” I deadpanned.

Her fingers skimmed the top of the chlorinated water. I knew she liked the attention, even if she’d never say it out loud.

The late-afternoon sun soaked everything in warmth, making the private pool outside our hotel room shimmer. I sat on the edge with my legs dangling in the cool water—a welcome contrast to the heat. It was quiet. Just the soft lapping of water against the pool’s edge and the distant murmur of laughter drifting from the main resort.

It was our first real time alone since the playoffs had ended. From here, everything—the extended season, the brutal road trips, the constant noise—felt far away. For the first time in months, we had no practices, no schedules, no early mornings. Just us.

Eventually, I eased into the pool, careful not to splash and disturb Eva’s zen. Unlike her revealing bikini, I wore swim shorts and a bikini top that bordered on sporty. I winced when the chilled water touched my bare midsection.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” I asked, sinking deeper into the pool.

Eva lifted her head just enough to glance at me. “How about we don’t plan anything? Just go wherever the day takes us.”

“That sounds perfect.”

I imagined lazy mornings tangled in bed, the soundtrack of tropical birds and waves crashing just beyond our windows.

“Are you actually going to use the pool you paid extra for?” I asked.

Eva had insisted on covering the cost of our vacation. I’d pushed back—hard—but she’d calmly dismantled my soapbox. You can pay for the next one, she’d promised.

The idea of there being a next vacation with her made me giddy, and we’d barely started this one.

Eva gracefully rose to her feet and walked along the pool’s ledge. She didn’t strike me as the cannonball type, which gave me extra time to admire the way the sunlight kissed her nearly bare skin.

Her movements were unhurried, yet deliberate. Sleek muscle shifted beneath smooth, sun-warmed skin with every step. Even in something as revealing as her bikini, there was nothing performative about her—only a calm, physical confidence that made it impossible to look away. She carried herself like someone who knew her own worth and had no need to prove it.

Powerful. That’s the word that came to mind.

Eva descended the concrete steps, one by one. Anticipating the tropical vacation, her hairstylist back in Chicago had twisted her hair into a multitude of micro braids that she arranged in a bun to avoid getting damp in the chlorinated water. 

When the water reached her navel, she let out a hiss. “Oh, that’s cold!” she complained. “You could’ve warned a girl.”

“It’s not an ice bath,” I smirked. “Getting soft with all this time off?”

Eva’s postseason had ended earlier than mine, with Chicago falling to New York in the semis. I hated that I was on the road when it happened. But if we were going to make this work, I had to accept reality: with our schedules, we wouldn’t always be there for each other’s losses or wins. Sometimes all we’d have were phone calls, late-night texts, or surprise ice cream deliveries.

“I’ve half a mind to call the front desk to dump a truckload of ice in here. I’ll turn this whole damn pool into one big ice bath,” she challenged. “Then we’ll see who’s soft.”

“Not everything has to be a competition, you know.”

Eva scoffed. “Says the girl who couldn’t handle losing a single game of HORSE.”

“That was one time,” I protested, although I couldn’t stop smiling.

Eva hummed and gave me a skeptical look.

We drifted around the pool separately, letting the water carry us, until the space became too much—like some invisible tether kept pulling us back together. Eva wound her legs around my waist, and I caught her instinctively by the hips.

I could feel the flex of her thighs against my sides, the shift of muscle as she adjusted. Her skin was warm from the sun, her thighs slick from sunscreen and sweat. It was impossible not to notice how good she felt under my hands.

I slid my hands to the small of her back, holding her easily in the water and guiding us into a slow, aimless drift. On land, she had inches on me, but here, she was weightless.

Her chest brushed mine with every breath, every movement. I tried not to stare at the way her bikini clung to her—how the wet fabric molded to the shape of her breasts, how the outline of her nipple teased just beneath the thin triangle of fabric.

She was trying to kill me. I was sure of it.

“Keep looking like that and I’m going to forget we’re supposed to be relaxing,” I murmured my warning. 

Her fingers traced the line of my collarbone and dipped below the edge of my bikini top. “What if I don’t want to relax?”

I swallowed. Hard.

Eva leaned in. “You said we didn’t have to plan anything.”

“I didn’t realize that included seduction by pool float,” I breathed.

Her low laugh vibrated through me. She kissed the corner of my mouth, then deeper. Her lips tasted of lime and sea salt, and I kissed her back like I’d been craving it for weeks. Months. Maybe always.

Under the water, her hands slid over my hips, then around to grip my ass. I drew in a sharp breath as heat bloomed low in my belly.

“You were saying something about sunscreen?” she teased against my lips.

“I think we need to reapply,” I practically panted. “Thoroughly.”

She smiled, but there was something soft behind it. Her eyes searched mine, and her hand reached up, fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from my forehead. Her fingers lingered, and I felt a warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the sun.

“Can I say something?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“Of course.”

She didn’t speak, not right away.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now. Not with anyone else.”

Her words were solemn, and her fingers grazed the side of my cheek. Her touch was gentle, it was like she was committing every detail to memory. I felt my heart catch, the weight of her words settling into a warm, steady ache.

“This is exactly where I want to be,” I agreed.

* * *

I leaned against the bartop and swirled the rapidly melting ice cubes at the bottom of my paloma. I’d finished getting ready in the room well before Eva, so she’d insisted I go ahead to the resort restaurant to make sure we didn’t lose our reservation. I was more than happy to abandon going out and order room service instead, but Eva had pushed me out the front door.

My attention drifted to the televisions hanging over the bar. Each oversized flatscreen featured a different sporting event. Amazingly, I wasn’t thinking about the next time I would be back on a basketball court. For the first time in as long as my memory stretched back, I wasn’t experiencing competition withdrawals. 

I had a hunch it had everything to do with the woman with whom I was on this vacation.

I’d never thought of myself as an adrenaline junkie. I had no interest in skydiving or bungee jumping, but I did thrive under the pressure of a clock counting down and a rabid fan base screaming from the sidelines. But all of that seemed to soften and fade away when I was in Eva’s proximity. We still brought out each other’s competitive side, but we’d found new things to one-up each other on.

Orgasms, for example.

My memory didn’t have to stretch back too far to recall the official start of our vacation. Jet-lagged and slightly sticky from the flight, Eva had still looked impossibly good in high-waisted shorts and a ribbed tank top knotted at her waist. All I could think about was getting her alone.

We hadn’t made it an hour into the trip before I had her pressed up against the cool tile wall of our room, kissing her like I’d been parched for weeks and she was the only thing that could satisfy me. She’d laughed into my mouth, told me we had all week, but I couldn’t help it. The plane had landed, but I hadn’t.

We hadn’t even unpacked. Just dropped the bags, drew the curtains, and tumbled into bed like the heat between us couldn’t be postponed.

I stirred the ice in my drink again, then brought the salted rim to my lips, hiding a private smile. We'd only emerged for food and water that first day, and even that had taken effort. Every time I’d tried to put distance between us—get dressed, check the resort’s amenities list, rinse the sweat off—she’d found some way to pull me back in. Her mouth behind my ear. Her fingers slipping beneath the hem of whatever I was wearing. Her quiet command: Come back to bed.

So I did.

It wasn’t just sex. It was joy. It was playful and greedy and worshipful. I’d never been touched like that before, or wanted to give so much in return. She made me feel powerful and undone at the same time.

“Another, Miss?”

I blinked again, pulled back into the present by the bartender.

“Oh. Sorry.” I set my glass down. “No, gracias.”

The bartender smiled and said something polite, but I hardly registered it, still thinking about the way Eva had looked straddling my lap on the edge of the hotel bed, her braids slipping loose from their bun, her mouth curved in a lazy, satisfied smile that said we’re not done yet.

I turned away from the bar and watched the entrance for Eva’s arrival. Couples and families with young children streamed through the entryway. Each one looked indistinguishable from the next, a long assembly line of resort wear and bad sunburns.

My attention had nearly glazed over when a tall, striking woman stepped up to the hostess stand. She looked effortlessly elegant in a long, flowing linen dress. A knitted shawl, more fashionable than practical, hung loosely from her arms. The dress’s halter top fastened behind her neck, drawing the eye to her strong shoulders and the graceful curve of her collarbone. The fabric skimmed past her knees almost to her ankles, but a high slit revealed toned calves that led into delicate, strappy sandals. Despite frequent sunscreen reapplications, she looked sunkissed. Glowing. Or maybe I was only in love.

Eva’s features remained neutral as she scanned the interior of the restaurant in search of me. She looked unbothered and unworried. Her beautiful face lit up, however, when her gaze fell on me.  

She’d already seen what I was wearing back in the room, but the look she gave me now suggested she was seeing it for the first time. Or seeing it differently.

I felt good. Relaxed. And, honestly, I thought I looked good, too. My fitted button-up hugged my biceps just right. The linen pants I’d chosen were sharply pressed, elongating my already long legs.

I stood a little taller as she approached, her long strides making easy work of the distance between us. She stopped in front of me, her gaze cataloging the view. Then, with a quiet sort of familiarity, she reached out and smoothed an invisible wrinkle on my shirt.

“Is this new?” she asked.

I glanced down from her light honey eyes to where her fingers had moved to the pendant on my necklace.

It wasn’t new. It wasn’t even particularly stylish. I was pretty sure she just wanted a reason to touch me.

“No.”

She hummed softly, considering. “I like it. It suits you.”

The fingers that had investigated my necklace slipped down to meet my hands. Her fingers intertwined with mine. It was an intimate and familiar gesture, one that had been forbidden until only a short while ago. Since our viral kiss on the basketball court, Eva had noticeably softened and become more demonstrative, both physically and verbally. She hadn’t settled on a pet name for me yet, but I trusted we’d get there.

The hostess appeared and gestured for us to follow. We weaved through crowded tables and wide archways that let in the ocean breeze. When we reached our table, I stepped ahead to pull out Eva’s chair.

“This is new,” she murmured as she sat, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth.

I shrugged as I pushed in her chair. “It felt right.”

Eva’s eyes flicked to mine. “It’s sweet, Lex.”

I’d never done that for anyone before. Not because I hadn’t cared, but because I hadn’t thought to do it. But with Eva, it came without thinking—a reflexive urge to make her feel safe. Cared for. Cherished. The word felt too delicate, too tender, but it was the one that stuck.

The moment broke as another uniformed staff member—our waiter, I assumed—stopped by our table.

“Buenas noches, señoras! I’m Carlos, your maestro de mesas tonight!” His voice boomed just enough to draw a few heads but not enough to be obnoxious.

He plucked one of the folded cloth napkins from the table and flicked his wrist, like a matador tempting a bull, before laying it across Eva’s lap. The movement was automatic, muscle memory taking over like he’d done the motion thousands of times.

When he pulled his hand back, I witnessed how his body seemed to jerk to attention. Recognition colored his features when his eyes locked on Eva.

He made an involuntary noise. “Oh! It’s you!”

Carlos looked quickly in my direction as if to decide if I was famous or not, too. I smiled weakly, anticipating his disappointment.

“Carlos, can we get two glasses of the house red?” Eva asked.

He snapped his gaze back to Eva. “Si, yes, of course!”

Carlos vanished toward the bar, and I let myself exhale. It shouldn’t have surprised me that our waiter recognized her, even in a different country, but small interactions like that only reminded me of the level of Eva’s celebrity. My girlfriend wasn’t just a professional basketball player; she was an international brand. I didn’t know if I’d ever get used to that.

I took a sip of my water and glanced around the restaurant, trying not to look like I was checking for witnesses. But it was impossible to ignore the undercurrent of attention that had begun to ripple in our direction.

Our table wasn’t in the center of the restaurant, but I couldn’t help feeling like a fish in a glass bowl. Every cell phone seemed to be tilted in our direction. They weren’t taking photos of their respective dinner plates—they all seemed to be watching us.

I held my hand over my mouth like a football coach trying to avoid a playcall from being intercepted by the opposing team.

“Is it just me, or is everyone looking at us?”

Eva only smiled encouragingly. She had far more experience being under the spotlight.

“Let them look,” she said gently. “No one else matters right now.”

I looked across the table at Eva, who sat back comfortably in her chair, seemingly unfazed by the attention. She draped her arm casually along the back of her seat. She didn’t flinch under scrutiny. She didn’t shrink or mask herself or try to make herself smaller. 

Across from her, I felt the opposite. Overexposed. A little unsteady. But then her foot brushed mine beneath the table—barely a touch, featherlight—and the noise around us dulled.

“Hey,” she said softly, just for me.

My gaze lifted to hers.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice low, careful.

I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure. I felt split in two—half of me floating somewhere above the table, trying to calculate how many people had their cameras pointed our way. The other half was under the surface, tethered to Eva, drawn to her calm like gravity.

Her fingers found mine again, steady and warm.

“Don’t disappear on me,” she said gently.

That pulled a small smile from me. “I won’t.”

“Good.” She gave my hand a squeeze. “Because I was really looking forward to dinner with my girlfriend.”

That word—girlfriend—settled something inside me. I breathed in.

I smiled. “Well, your girlfriend is about to make a bold menu choice.”

“Oh?”

“The habanero shrimp.” 

She gave me a look of pure disbelief. “Lex. You’re a white girl from Wisconsin. You think mayo is spicy.”

“I have a very sophisticated palate,” I defended myself.

Eva picked up her menu with casual elegance. “Do I need to prep a glass of milk for you, or are you planning to power through on sheer Midwestern stubbornness?”

“Oh, I’m finishing it,” I said, reaching for my water glass. “I always finish.”

Her smile turned slow and wicked. “Not at the table, Lex.”

I nearly choked on my sip, laughing.

Just like that, I was steady again. Not the center of attention—just the center of hers.

* * *

We took our time walking back to our room at the end of the night. An illuminated boardwalk hugged the resort’s sandy shoreline. Miniature lights marked our path and cast warm pools of gold onto the weathered planks.

Our steps were unhurried; we paused from time to time to stare out at the inky ocean, turquoise in the day, but now dark beyond the lighted walkway.

Eva’s fingers curled around my bare bicep, warm and steady. She hadn’t let go since we’d left the restaurant. She tugged her knit shawl higher up her shoulders with her free hand. The fabric slipped over the straps of her dress, nearly the same color as the bikini she’d worn earlier, the one still seared into my mind.

“Are you cold?” I worried. A cool, ocean-kissed breeze swirled around us. The temperature had noticeably dipped after sunset, sometime between our entrees and dessert.

“I’ll be fine.” I felt the light, reassuring squeeze of her fingers. “You can warm me up back at the room.”

My tongue darted out to wet my lips before I could stop myself. She caught it—of course she did—but instead of calling me out, her thumb traced slow circles in the crook of my arm.

Another couple passed us, moving in the opposite direction—a man and a woman, arms linked like ours. The woman’s laugh floated in the night air, light and easy. My body tensed out of habit, expecting Eva to shift away, to drop my arm and put distance between us.

But she didn’t.

If anything, she tilted her head closer to mine. She continued to hold onto me, our shoulders pressed together. We weren’t just good friends or former teammates. This wasn’t something casual, either, something to keep hidden behind closed doors. This was real.

And she wanted the world to know.

By the time we reached our room, I wasn’t thinking about the cool night air or the curious eyes that had lingered at dinner. I was only thinking about her— how I couldn’t wait to show her exactly how warm I could keep her.

The door had barely clicked shut behind us before her hands were on me. Eva pulled me to her as if we had only minutes, not the entire night, to spare. Her hands slid over my shoulders and down my bare arms, a mix of tenderness and need.

I managed to shrug out of my cross-body bag, letting it drop to the floor, just as she backed me up against the wall in the entryway.

We never made it past that wall.

Eva busied herself with the buttons at the front of my shirt while I pressed hot kisses to the tops of her naked shoulders. When she finished with the last of my shirt’s buttons, I spun us around so it was she with her back against the wall.

My eager fingers explored the expansive fabric of her maxi dress. The material was light, perfect for a tropical vacation, but impractical for intimacy. I gathered the generous skirt in my hands and purposefully passed it off to her.

I leaned close and breathed my command into her ear: “Hold up your dress.”

I took a few steps back to admire the view. Eva’s long, powerful legs. Her smooth, lotioned skin. The seamless underwear that hugged her hips and tapered waist.

“You look so good like that,” I murmured my approval.

She visibly trembled.

Neither of us really dominated the other in the bedroom. Eva liked to be fucked while I didn’t particularly care for penetration, but that didn’t mean I naturally topped her. If anything, she was a power bottom who told me exactly what she wanted. How fast. How deep.

And I was a good listener.

I stepped close again to brush the tips of my fingers against the front of her underwear. My fingers gently passed over her slightly protruding clit through the satin material.

I smiled, hearing her breath catch and quicken.

"What's that line?" I rhetorically posed. "Lady in the streets but a freak in the sheets?"

"Forget the streets," Eva replied huskily. "It's all about those sheets."

I pushed the center panel of her underwear to the side. Eva's eyes fluttered closed, and she let out a soft sigh. I gently ran my fingers over her exposed clit, feeling it throb beneath my touch.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” she quietly admitted.

I smiled, feeling a surge of confidence at her words. My fingers continued to dance across her clit, applying gentle pressure.

“You should have said something earlier. I would have fucked you.” I leaned in closer, my lips near hers. “In the pool—I could have had my fingers inside you. Or in the shower before dinner.” I pressed a small kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Under the table at the restaurant?” I suggested. “Or a stall in the restaurant bathroom? All you need is to say the word.”

Eva released an uneven breath. “Can’t have you thinking I’m some sort of nympho who can’t get through the day without your hands on me.”

“I don’t know why you’d want to deny yourself what you want,” I said pragmatically. I pressed down on her clit through her underwear and she shuddered. “But at least now you don’t have to be quiet. Now you can be as loud as you want.”

Her hips started to move—subtle at first, then insistent as I increased the pace and pressure of my touch.

I needed to taste her. I dropped to my knees on the cool tile floor and stared up at her with obvious adoration. Her eyes locked on mine, a smile of encouragement tugging at her lips.

I gently tugged her underwear down over her hips, exposing her pussy to my eager gaze.

Eva stepped out of the fabric one foot at a time, steady even in her excitement. I guided her back against the wall with a hand to her thigh. I kissed the inside of her knee and slowly worked my way up. Her scent—clean, sweet, familiar—filled my lungs, and I exhaled against her.

She threaded her fingers into my hair, letting her head tip back as I nuzzled into the juncture of her thighs. I licked a slow, deliberate line along her seam, then paused to kiss just beside it, teasing her the way she liked—gentle to start, coaxing her open.

“Lex,” she breathed. It wasn’t a plea. It was a warning.

I smiled against her skin. “I know.”

My tongue circled her clit, slow and rhythmic, and her knees buckled slightly. I caught her hips in my hands and pressed her tighter to the wall for balance, for leverage, for control.

Her breath quickened, short little exhales timed to the flick of my tongue. She grabbed my shoulder with one hand, the wall with the other. I loved her like this—uninhibited, not trying to be quiet or composed or polite.

"Oh God, that feels so good," she breathed.

Her moans turned guttural, deeper, edged with desperation. I could feel her trembling against my mouth, the strain in her thighs as she tried to hold still, as if she didn’t want to come just yet—or didn’t want to come like this.

She pressed her hips forward, insistent, her body saying what her mouth didn’t.

And then her hands were on me—gripping, clutching. Nails raked over my shoulders, not to push me away, but to pull me up.

She needed more.

She didn’t need to say the words. I knew what she wanted. I wish I had packed my strap so I could fuck her against the wall. But we didn’t really need the plastic. My fingers could handle the job.

I surged up, crashing into her mouth, and she sucked my tongue into her mouth. I knew my mouth probably tasted like her arousal.

“You taste good, huh?” I said, honest and undone.

“So do you.”

Her hand slid down the front of my linen pants and beneath my underwear. My knees buckled when solid, confident fingers slid along my slit. Her hand was gone nearly as quickly as it had made its appearance.

Something wild and feral flared in my chest to see her bring those fingers, wet with my own juices, up to her plush mouth. Eva sucked her fingertips clean and made a quiet sound of approval.

My arm went around her waist. “God, what you do to me, Eva,” I practically growled.

Her stare was bright. “It’s almost like I do it on purpose,” she declared with mock innocence.

She grabbed the front panels of my open shirt and yanked me closer. “C’mon. I need to feel your hands on me. In me.”

I unfastened the clasp that had secured her halter top at the base of her neck. The fabric slipped loose, revealing her breasts. My mouth found them instantly–her nipples already swollen and sensitive. I suckled and licked, tugging softly with my lips and teeth, and drew out the prettiest sounds from her equally pretty mouth.

My hand found its way back between her thighs, beneath her skirt. I slid two fingers between her folds, easing them inside with practiced care. The gasp she gave let me know she’d been wetter than I’d realized.

Eva moaned as I began to finger-fuck her against the wall. Her head fell back and her leg wrapped tighter around me, pulling us together so that our hips touched.

My fingers moved faster with every thrust. The sound of flesh on flesh filled the air along with our heavy breathing.

"God, I love your fingers," she groaned.

Her breathy praise was my favorite sound.

"Deeper," Eva murmured. "I want to feel you deeper."

I obliged, sliding my fingers further into her as she gasped in response. Her hips began to buck against me, meeting every thrust of my fingers as she sought to deepen the penetration.

"Harder," she breathed. Her eyes locked on mine, fierce and burning. "Fuck me harder."

I gave her everything. I increased the pace and pressure of my strokes, feeling Eva's muscles tense up in response. My thumb found its way to her clit, rubbing gently at first, then with more pressure as Eva's cries grew louder. She gasped, a loud and almost surprised noise, each time I curled my fingers inside of her. 

Her control slipped with every thrust. "Yes, like that," she moaned. "Don't stop, don't stop ..."

The sounds she made—raw and unfiltered—were good for my ego, but they were also definitely loud. I hoped for good insulation between the resort rooms. There was no question as to what we were doing in our room.

"Fuck, you’re so tight," I grunted, my fingers never faltering. "I love how you feel around my fingers."

Eva's leg tightened around me, holding me in place as she rode my fingers with abandon. “Now, Lex," she demanded. "Make me come now."

I did. I pounded into her with renewed intensity, feeling Eva's muscles coiling tighter and tighter as she strained towards release. She convulsed around my fingers in a rush of heat and sound—body shaking, voice rising.

“Yes … oh, God… yes!”

The walls didn’t stand a chance against her cries. Let the whole resort wonder. There was no mistaking what was happening in our room.

And God, I hoped the night was just getting started.

New Release: Buried Promises, DCMH Book 7

The latest installment of Cassidy and Julia is here, and I’m so excited to share it with you all. When I started writing the original Don’t Call Me Hero, back in 2014, I was trying to catch lightning in a bottle—to produce a novel whose characters resonated similar to how readers became invested with Winter Jacket and Elle & Hunter. I had no idea it would evolve into a seven book (and more to come!) series, but I’m so happy that Cassidy and Julia continue to inspire and excite.

The Cold Case in Buried Promises provided me with an opportunity to speak on a historical example that’s long been a passion of mine: racial housing covenants, urban ‘renewal’, and the legacy of redlining. There’s a fallacy in the North—that racism didn’t and doesn’t exist here. We like to tell a whitewashed version of history when it comes to race in the North. That we were the “good guys” in the Civil War. That slavery didn’t exist here. That Jim Crow segregation was unique to the South. We see those images of drinking fountains with signs that read “Whites Only” or hear about segregated busses and think that nothing like that happened in the North. That’s the history I remember learning when I was little, and it’s a history I work hard to correct now as an adult.

When my wife and I bought our first home in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in 2009, I was so exited to discover a bag full of original documents from when the home was constructed in 1941. I loved looking at the 1941 blueprints and seeing how the house had or hadn’t changed over time or seeing the handwriting of the original homeowners on a sales receipt for a shipment of coal. But as I was looking over the original purchase agreement, my stomach dropped when I saw the stipulation “That neither said lots or portions thereof or interest therein shall ever be leased, sold, devised, conveyed to or inherited or be otherwise acquired by or become property of any person other than of the Caucasian Race." My home—the first house I’d ever bought—in the city that I loved, had been part of a racial housing covenant that kept people of color from moving to specific housing developments. Like Professor Cunningham, I knew academically that racial covenants had existed, but it wasn’t until I held those primary sources in my hands that it really hit me.

I would encourage everyone who is interested in learning more to view this PBS documentary, Jim Crow of the North. It’s a powerful (and free) film about the systemic ways Black families were shut out of homeownership and generational wealth because of racial covenants in places like Minneapolis, Milwaukee, and countless cities across the so-called progressive North.

Milwaukee has the dubious honor of being the most racially segregated city in the country. It’s a legacy of redlining—the 1930s government-initiated project of “scoring” various neighborhoods to determine which sections of major U.S. cities would be a safe bet for mortgages and investment capital. The impact of those decisions still reverberates today in school funding, health outcomes, and generational wealth gaps. These are not abstract issues. They are lived realities for millions of Americans.

As always, I wrote this book with the hope that readers would learn something along with enjoy a compelling love story. Julia Desjardin keeps folks coming back for more, but I also hope that after reading Buried Promises that you come away thinking a little differently about what justice looks like, especially when it comes decades too late. If the story sticks with you, or makes you uncomfortable in the right ways, I hope you’ll dig deeper. Ask questions. Look around your own neighborhood. We can’t change what we don’t understand.

To find out if your own neighborhood was “graded” green, blue, yellow, or red, check out this digital history project: Mapping Inequality. I also recommend this book: Richard Rothstein, The Color of Law: A Forgotten History of How Our Government Segregated America.

Thanks, as always, for reading—and for staying with Cassidy and Julia through their ups and downs, late-night pie stops, and moral dilemmas. Their story continues, and I’m so grateful you’re along for the ride.

prost,

Eliza

So You Want to Start a Revolution

We’ve all been muddling through 2025 the best we can and looking for ways to control something in our lives—trying to identify something we can do so we don’t feel so helpless. I’m right there with you.

Recently there’s been talk about boycotting all products sold on Amazon. Jeff Bezos is a problematic billionaire, so it makes sense to want to hurt his bottom dollar—to withhold our purchasing power to try to affect change. But you might also have seen alarm from within the sapphic romance community, largely self-published authors, that the Amazon boycott is hurting them, not Bezos. 

I thought it might be useful to pull back the curtain on self-publishing, Kindle Unlimited, and Amazon in general to help inform your choices, as well as elements of an effective consumer boycott from a historian’s perspective.

First: How to Tell If an Author Is Self-Published

Screenshot from Amazon paperback sales page for Hoops & Heartstrings

Check the publisher info on a book’s sale page on Amazon. If it says "Independently published," it’s self-published. If the publisher isn’t one you recognize, do a quick internet search—it could be that the author created an LLC.

Kindle Unlimited and Self-Published Authors

When I started self-publishing over a decade ago, I originally enrolled in Kindle Unlimited (KU) because I wanted to make my novels available to more readers. Coming from the read-for-free fanfic world, I didn’t want to gatekeep who could afford my books.

I don’t enroll in KU because it’s the best way to get an orange Best Seller sticker—I do it so the isolated queer kids living in rural America who don’t have a lot of money can find themselves represented in one of my books. It’s the same reason I keep the purchase price of my ebooks low ($4.99) even though the market indicates I could set my prices at $7.99 or $9.99.

I don’t rely on book royalties for my primary income, but so many of my self-published colleagues who are full-time authors do. And the simple fact is that most indie authors wouldn’t be able to do what we do without Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.

How Does KU Work for Authors?

This is an evergreen topic, and one I think every reader should know more about:

Authors get paid based on pages read (about $0.0045 per page). We only get paid for the first read-through, however. If a reader re-reads a book on KU, authors don’t get compensation for the second (or third or fourth) re-read.

An author who goes “wide” (i.e. makes their novels available at other online retail stores) cannot enroll in KU. In other words, to be enrolled in KU, an author must sell exclusively through Amazon. 

Why would an author limit themselves to Amazon, you ask? The biggest incentive is royalty shares. By enrolling in KU and making books exclusive to Amazon, authors earn 70% royalties on their ebook sales versus 35%. So if my ebook is sold for $4.99, I make $3.49 instead of $1.75.

Amazon is the largest bookseller in the world. 85% of all book sales occur on Amazon. Selling directly from my website and/or moving to Kobo, Nook, Apple, etc., just isn’t profitable or viable. Until Congress recognizes Amazon’s monopoly for what it is, not even the Big Five publishers have the clout to stand up to them.

How Amazon Makes Money

And yet, Amazon is far more than an online bookstore. A large portion of its revenue comes from cloud computing (AWS), advertising, and third-party marketplace sellers.

Boycotting ebook purchases from Amazon or canceling your Kindle Unlimited subscription won’t impact their bottom line in a meaningful way. However, shifting non-book purchases to other retailers could have an effect.

Elements of a Successful Consumer Boycott

Consumer boycotts have a long history of success. We only need look to the Civil Rights Movement to see tangible examples. Sparked by Rosa Parks' arrest in 1955, the Montgomery Bus Boycott led to a Supreme Court ruling that segregation on public buses was unconstitutional. This was a particularly successful boycott since 75% of Montgomery’s bus ridership was Black and they avoided using the bus system for a year.

A consumer boycott is most effective when:

It’s well-organized and clearly defines its objectives.

It targets a specific product or service that significantly impacts a company’s profits.

It gains widespread public support and media coverage.

It’s sustained over a long period.

Here are some other examples: 

From 1965-1970, led by labor leader Cesar Chavez and the United Farm Workers, Americans’ boycotts of California table grapes was so prolonged, it led to improved labor contracts for migrant grape pickers. In the 1990s, widespread backlash against Nike’s use of sweatshops forced the company to improve working conditions and implement better labor standards. And after the Deepwater Horizon oil spill in 2010, consumers and environmental activists boycotted BP gas stations, forcing the company to spend billions on damage control and reputation management.

What do all of these companies have in common? Buses, table grapes, sports shoes, oil? They’re all a single product. 

Amazon is a different kind of monster. When it comes to Amazon, books and KU subscriptions aren’t where they make their money. It would be like boycotting McDonald’s but only not buying their Chicken McNuggets. 

You’ve ultimately got to do what’s best for you, but a consensus compromise I’m seeing online is to only use Amazon for Kindle Unlimited and/or ebook purchases while buying all other products elsewhere. If you want to hurt Amazon, reconsider where you buy household goods, electronics, and cloud services—not ebooks from independent authors.

For the naysayers who are critical of authors for “putting themselves in this position” (e.g. “It was irresponsible to put all your eggs in one Amazon-shaped basket”), would you say the same thing to someone who’s just been laid off from their job or was forced to take a pay cut/work less hours? “That’s on you—you shouldn’t have made yourself so beholden to one employer.” Chances are, no. For all intents and purposes, Amazon is the primary employer for many self-published authors—Amazon is their publisher. And if you don’t think writing full-time is an actual “job,” then we need to have another conversation.

It’s not my intent to bully or guilt anyone regarding their consumer habits; we all make our own decisions. But I’m an educator—that’s my job—and in this moment of so much confusion, dis/misinformation, and competing voices, it’s important more than ever that the choices we make be informed decisions, grounded in reality. The reality is that Amazon has an outsized influence on self-published authors and the entire book industry. For many independent writers, Amazon is not just a retailer but a lifeline. And while it’s fair to critique the monopolistic power of the company, it’s equally necessary to understand the repercussions of a boycott that disproportionately affects the most vulnerable participants in the ecosystem rather than its billionaire executives.

At the end of the day, ethical consumerism is about making conscious choices, not perfect ones. Acknowledging the complexities of the publishing industry and Amazon’s reach allows for a more nuanced approach to advocacy. If the goal is to start a revolution, let it be one that is informed, strategic, and mindful of those who would be most impacted by our actions.

WIP: Buried Promises (DCMH7)

It’s been rough lately. I think we deserve some Julia & Cassidy. Here’s a little NSFW scene from my current WIP, Buried Promises - Don’t Call Me Hero, book 7.

+++

I heard the sharp clickclack of her designer heels before I actually saw her. The punctuated sound rose above the din of the busy stadium. Or maybe it only seemed that way—maybe it was only my quickened pulse. Nearly a year of dating, and she still made my heart race.

Because, seriously—who wore red bottom shoes to a basketball game?

Julia appeared at the edge of the crowd, the refined silhouette of her tailored pantsuit standing out against a sea of jerseys and graphic t-shirts. The pinched look on her face softened when she spotted me by an elevated cocktail table.

I wiped my palms on my jeans, feeling every bit as casual as I looked in my player jersey and sneakers. I’d had time after work to swing by Julia’s condo to change clothes, but she had presumably come directly from her office. The remnants of a greasy slice of pepperoni pizza sat on a paper plate in front of me—one of my less glamorous moments.

Julia didn’t seem to care. She closed the distance between us, her hands sliding over my hips as she leaned in. We were close–close enough that I could smell her skin and the spicy scent of her sandalwood shampoo.  

She tugged lightly at the bottom hem of my jersey, a teasing smile on her lips. “You always have such team spirit.” 

I grinned. "We could grab you something at the Team Store?” I suggested. "Maybe a foam finger?" 

Her laugh was soft. Tired. “How about you get me something to drink instead?”

“Rough day?” My smile turned sympathetic. “We can go home if you want to.”

Her days lately had stretched beyond typical working hours as she continued to get acclimated to her new job as a pro bono lawyer for one of the Twin Cities’ most ruthless criminal defense law firms. Her position had been created to give back to the community–to show that even the most cut-throat team of litigators had heart.

Julia’s mood shifted and she purposefully brightened. “That’s not necessary, darling. I’ll be fine.” 

She looped her arm through mine and allowed me to guide her in the direction of the closest beverage vendor. Not long after, I was balancing an oversized beer in one hand and a plastic bucket of buttery popcorn in the other while Julia sipped her wine.

We made our way down to the courtside seats—a perk of Julia’s new job. My excitement grew the closer we descended to the court. Courtside wasn’t a bad way to watch a game. I could already anticipate being disappointed with anything less. 

“This is so cool,” I enthused. “I’ve never sat this close before.”

I’d been to several pro and semi-pro Minnesota-based sporting events, mostly with my dad growing up. But he’d never splurged on tickets. We tended to sit in the nosebleed seats, the highest level of the arena, so far away that the athletes had looked like miniature action figures. 

I tried to imagine surprising him with courtside seats. He’d bristle at the extravagance and once at the game he’d feign disinterest as if watching a game only a few feet from the action was an everyday occurrence. What was it that made Midwesterners so hard to impress? So reluctant to show emotion?  

Julia, predictably, maintained a cool and unaffected exterior, although I suspected her nonchalance stemmed from something else.  

She gestured toward the giant men taking warm-up shots. “How hard is it to make a basket when you’re seven feet tall? That hardly seems like a skill to me.”

I smirked. “You’re a tough woman to impress.”

We settled into our respective cushioned seats close to the court’s edge. “We should get tickets to a women’s game next season,” I suggested. “If you want to see skill and pure basketball game play—that’s where it’s at.” I popped a few pieces of buttery popcorn into my mouth and smiled around the addictive artificial flavor. “I could even buy you your own jersey.”

“I doubt I could pull off that look as well as you do, darling,” Julia resisted.

“Maybe not layered over your power suit,” I teased, “but think about the statement it would make at your office.” 

Julia tilted her head, her lips curving. “What, that I’m approachable?“ she snorted. “That’s already the PR campaign for my position at the firm. Pro bono queen. Champion of the underdog.”

"It’s not the worst title." I leaned back in my seat and shoveled more popcorn into my open mouth. 

Julia gave a knowing hum, her expression guarded. “Although behind closed doors, I’m sure the nicknames are far less generous. Forcing culture change at an established business isn’t the key to making friends.” She straightened in her chair and seemed to roll her shoulders. “But that’s fine. I’m not there to be liked or make friends.”

I frowned, lowering the popcorn bucket. “That sounds pretty lonely.”

Julia met my gaze, her eyes softening. “It’s not lonely when I get to come home to someone who reminds me why I do it. Someone who believes in me even when the rest of the room doesn’t.” 

My cheeks warmed, and I looked away, pretending to focus on the players still getting limber on the court. “I’m just saying, they should be giving you a parade, not the cold shoulder.”

Julia smiled faintly. “You’re very kind to say so, Cassidy.”

I reached for her hand, curling my fingers around hers. She didn’t pull away despite the lingering, buttery grease that coated my fingertips. “And I plan to keep saying so. Motivational texts. Daily affirmations?” 

Her laugh was soft, but it reached her eyes this time. “Chronically online memes?” 

I beamed. “Memes are modern wisdom, babe.”

She shook her head, visibly amused, and settled back into her seat. The game was moments away from starting, players gathering at center court for the opening tip-off, but I wasn’t thinking about the court or the players or the cheering fans that surrounded us. My thoughts only had room for the beautiful woman seated beside me, her hand resting lightly on my knee.

 

The buzzer sounded, signaling halftime, and the players jogged off the court to polite applause. Around us, the crowd began to buzz with conversation or stood from their seats for a bathroom break and a concession stand visit. 

I turned to Julia and caught her consulting her watch.  

“You ready to call it?” I asked.

Her lips twitched into a half-smile. “Would you mind terribly? I don’t want to rob you of the experience, but I have another long day tomorrow.” 

I immediately sprang to my feet and grabbed my leather jacket from the back of my chair. “Say no more.”

As we walked toward the exit, I kept close, shielding Julia from the jostling crowd. Minnesota Nice had apparently given way to more carnal impulses in the desire for beer refills and getting to the front of the bathroom line. I led the way, half a step in front of Julia. Old instincts—it didn’t matter that this wasn’t a combat zone. Julia’s hand brushed my arm, a small reminder that she didn’t need protection, but she didn’t push me away either. 

“So, what now?” she asked once we hit the chilly night air. Her breath puffed out in delicate clouds, the outside temperature a sharp contrast to the warmth of the stadium. “Back home? Or is this the part where you try to tempt me with greasy fast food?”

I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets, my breath forming a foggy trail in front of me. “Depends. Have you ever tried one of those cheese curd burgers from Murphy’s on Hennepin? Life-changing.” 

Her look was pointed but amused. “I’ve managed to go my entire life without cheese curds. Somehow I think I’ll survive.”

+ + +

Julia stood before the vanity in the condo’s en-suite bathroom, carefully removing her makeup with gentle swipes of a cotton pad. The soft lighting in the master bathroom cast her features in a warm glow, making her look more relaxed than she had all evening. I leaned against the doorframe, brushing my teeth and watching her. It was a quiet ritual, one I never tired of. 

“You’ve got a full day tomorrow,” I said, rinsing my mouth. “Anything I can help with?” 

She glanced at me through the mirror, her expression soft but inscrutable. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“I’m already worrying.”

Julia set the cotton pad down and turned to face me. “I’m visiting my mother in the morning.” Her tone was carefully measured. “And then I have an appointment with my doctor in the afternoon for my first hormone injection.” 

I swallowed. “Oh. That’s ... big.”

Her smile was faint, almost rueful. “It is.”

“Do you want me to come with you? To either one?” 

“You don’t have to do that. I know your plate is just as full as mine.”

I reached for her hand, threading my fingers through hers. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to be there if you need me.”

Julia had finally settled on a new assisted-living facility for her mother just before the Christmas holiday. The suburban location wasn’t necessarily convenient to her St. Paul condo, but she’d preferred the spread out footprint of the suburban site to any of the smaller facilities we’d toured in the Twin Cities. I tried not to get jealous about the stolen time. It was her mother, after all, not Julia going to a bar after work to get drunk with her friends. I hadn’t accompanied her on any visits since her mother’s rehoming, but I knew I should make more of an effort. I’d never liked healthcare facilities, however, and old people made me nervous.

Julia’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, the tension easing out of her posture. “Visiting my mother ... it’s not always pleasant.”

I nodded and squeezed her hand. “Still. I’m happy to go if it would help you.”

“And the doctor?” she asked, her voice quieter.

This was to be the first of many injections. From what I’d learned since Julia had first revealed that she wanted to freeze her eggs, hormone shots and ultrasounds would take place over the next ten to fourteen days, followed by the actual retrieval procedure. The hormone shots would trick her body into producing multiple eggs at once to be harvested and stored until the timing was right.  

“That, too,” I said. “Whatever you need.”

For a moment, she said nothing; she only studied our joined hands. Then she leaned in, her lips brushing against my temple. “Thank you. I’ll let you know.”

“You’d better.” My tone was teasing, but my chest felt tight. Julia carried so much, always with poise and precision, but sometimes I wondered how much she let herself feel.

Julia pulled back and met my gaze. Her smile softened into something real. “You’re a perfect partner, Cassidy.” 

“Just trying to keep up with you,” I said, letting myself smile back.

 

By the time we climbed into bed, the condo was quiet except for the occasional hum of traffic from the street below. Julia had already dimmed the lights, casting the room in soft shadows. She slid under the covers with her usual grace, her bare legs brushing against mine as I settled in beside her. 

I shifted closer, wrapping an arm around her waist and resting my head on her shoulder. She didn’t protest; her hand lightly trailed down my forearm in a way that felt both reassuring and grounding.

“That’s an awfully nice ring,” she murmured. “Someone has exquisite taste.”

My gaze lowered to the flashing diamond on my left ring finger. Rather than admiring the engagement ring, I experienced a pang of guilt. I still wanted to get a ring for Julia, but the prospect intimidated me. What if I chose something she hated? Would she second-guess her own proposal that I knew her so little to buy her something so ugly?  

“Have you thought about a sperm donor?” I asked.

“Is this a serious conversation?” she returned.

“Would you want to know the guy? Or do you think you’ll go to a bank and get a stranger’s sperm?“ I wondered. “Do they still call them banks? Like, making a deposit sounds really gross. There’s got to be another term for that by now, right?”

I heard her quiet puff of air. “I guess we are having this conversation.”

“I was only curious if you’d thought about the next step, that’s all,” I insisted. “No pressure.”

“No pressure indeed.” She let out a quiet, exasperated sigh, but her hand resumed its slow, absentminded movements on my arm. “In truth, I wish I could eliminate the necessity of a man altogether, but unfortunately science doesn’t work that way yet.”  

“I kind of envy straight couples,” I thought aloud. “They don’t have to go through this.” 

“Fertility complications are more common than you’d think,” Julia observed. “Many couples, even opposite-sex partners, often need a little boost from a doctor.”

“Yeah, sure, but you know when couples are like ‘we’re trying to have a baby’ and it’s just polite-speak for having a lot of sex? It sounds kind of fun.” 

Julia quietly chuckled. “I don’t think we’ve ever needed an excuse to be intimate.”

“I’m just saying, if you want my opinion on potential donors, I’m here for that, too.”

Julia’s head tilted toward me. “Darling, you’re impossible sometimes.”

“And yet you still love me.”

She didn’t respond immediately, but her hand moved to cradle my cheek. Her thumb brushed softly against my skin. “I do,” she said quietly, almost as if it were a confession. 

I leaned into her touch, closing my eyes and letting the moment settle over us. Julia’s walls could be formidable, but every now and then, she let me peek behind them.

I felt subtle movements beside me. The bedsheets rustled and the queen-sized mattress shifted. Julia’s reposed figure pressed tight against my own. Strong, feminine fingers curled around the waistband of my flannel sleep shorts while fingers from a second hand slid up my upper thigh and beneath the leg hole of my shorts. 

“What are you doing?” Suspicion crept into my tone.

“If we’re going to have a baby, I don’t want you missing out on all of that fun sex while we’re trying to conceive.” 

Julia’s voice was remarkably matter-of-fact, as though her fingertips weren’t tracing the outline of my naked pussy with a gentle, teasing touch. 

I swallowed hard and barely resisted canting into her hand. “What-what happened to having an early morning?”  

I wasn’t really complaining or concerned, but it felt like the noble thing to do—to give her an out.

Julia's laughter was low and husky. “Cassidy, be a dear and just enjoy this.”

My voice was barely audible over the sound of my own ragged breathing: "Yes, ma’am.” 

Julia continued to tease me beneath my shorts. Her fingers traced light circles around my entrance; my hips instinctively arched to meet her touch. When her fingers grazed my clit, my entire body convulsed.

The bedroom was dark, seemingly heightening my other senses. The scent of Julia’s spicy, earthy perfume. Her warm breath tickling against my neck. Her voice in my ear.

"You like this, don't you, dear?" she said in that smoky, low burr. "You like being touched, being teased, being made to feel like you're the only thing that matters."

Her fingers never stopped moving. She circled my clit and tapped against my entrance. I felt my hips arching up, my legs spreading wider as I invited her to touch me more.

"I can feel how wet you are, so ready,” Julia approved, her voice still a murmur in my ear. “I can feel your pussy trembling, desperate for my fingers." Her lips moved against my ear when she spoke: “But if you want my fingers, you’ll have to do it yourself.” 

Julia's words were a challenge, a dare to take what I wanted. I hesitated, only briefly, before reaching beneath the blankets that covered us. I lifted my backside off the mattress and pushed my shorts down my legs. The fabric bunched around my thighs as I exposed myself to her.

I continued to blindly seek her out. I found her hand, despite the darkness, and guided her fingers to where I wanted them. Julia let out a soft hum of approval, first one finger and then two slipping inside me with ease.

“That’s my good girl.”

I groaned, my body responding to her words as much as her touch.

Julia began to move her fingers in a slow, deliberate rhythm. All the way in. All the way out. "You're so beautiful like this," she murmured, her voice full of praise. Her lips brushed against my ear. "You're so sensitive, so receptive. It's like your body was made for me to fuck.”

“God, Julia,” I wheezed.

Her free hand snaked up to my neck. Her fingers tangled in my hair, which I’d pulled back in a high ponytail. She wrapped the end of my ponytail around her hand and tugged. “Show me how much you love being fucked." 

My hand found its way to her wrist. I held her in place and shamelessly ground against her. The friction from her fingers mashed against my clit pulled a greedy whimper from my mouth.

Julia’s fingers reached impossibly deeper. “You're almost there, aren't you, dear?” she seemed to taunt. “You're almost ready to come for me.” 

I exhaled sharply and my stomach muscles coiled. “Uh huh.”

Julia's fingers moved faster, her touch more insistent. “That's it, darling. Come for me.” Her voice was quiet, but urgent. “Come all over my fingers.” 

When her thumb pressed down on my clit, I could only respond with a strangled cry. Suddenly, Julia's mouth was on mine, her lips claiming me in a fierce kiss. Our tongues tangled, and I felt like I was drowning.

I came hard, my body convulsing around her fingers as I cried out into her mouth. Julia's kiss swallowed my sounds. Her lips were gentle as she rode out my orgasm with me.

"I think … I think we're getting the hang of this baby-making thing," I said, my voice shaky and my breathing labored. 

Julia chuckled darkly, her fingers still buried inside me. "I don’t know … I think we're going to need more practice.”

Her fingers flexed, letting me know she wasn’t done with me yet. 

I rolled my hips, forcing her deeper again. "Happy to oblige.“ A quiet groan vibrated in my throat. “After all, practice makes perfect."

New Release: Hoops & Heartstrings

I love sports. I love playing sports. I love watching sports. I love sports—period.

I grew up in a small town in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan where participation in youth sports—regardless of one’s gender—was particularly encouraged. I grew up playing basketball, softball, and ice hockey. My parents spent their summers driving me around to basketball camps and 3-on-3 Gus Macker basketball tournaments. I saved my birthday money to buy Rebecca Lobo’s UConn jersey and real authentic player shorts and would practice my shot on the poured blacktop court my dad had installed in our yard. In high school I added volleyball to that list of sports, and I went on to play both volleyball and softball in college.

I’ve long wanted to write a sporty sapphics novel, but the seed of the idea behind Hoops & Heartstrings formulated in March of 2023. My wife and I get into March Madness every year, both on the men’s and the women’s side—filling out brackets and turning the tournament into our entire personality. Like so many others that year, we got swept up in the Angel Reese/Caitlin Clark discourse. Did they hate each other? Were they bad sports? Were they trash talkers? Or were they simply competitive athletes who wanted to win a championship? I was bothered by the obvious double-standards we place on female athletes who are supposed to be humble and demure and gracious to a fault. We’re not all that removed from the World War II period when we expected female baseball players to wear skirts and makeup and be ladies on and off the field.

My author brain was also churning away—what if two players who hated each other in college got drafted to the same WNBA team? We see it all the time in the professional league—two players who have beef now suddenly find themselves playing for the same franchise. How do they navigate that situation? And what if they fell in love?

The central characters in Hoops & Heartstrings are not based off of Caitlin Clark and Angel Reese—this isn’t real person fanfiction (eww), but I’m sure a casual fan might believe that. Instead, they’re amalgamations of certain kinds of athletes. Lex is from the midwest, grew up in a lower-middle class family, and has a chip on her shoulder from being overlooked and underestimated. She doesn’t shoot logo threes or stunt for fans; she prizes grit and good defense and putting the team before individual accomplishments. Eva is from a monied family in New England, went to college in the South, and has been catapulted to celebrity status because of the many sponsorships and endorsements she received in college and now as a pro.

I’m really proud and excited about this—my 22nd full-length novel! It’s another story that weaves romance with a social justice storyline. I wanted to highlight the disparity between the men’s and the women’s league, but also the double-standard between white and Black female players—the way they’re perceived and treated by fans and the media. White female athletes often receive more positive media coverage, focusing on athleticism, leadership, and skill. In contrast, Black female athletes face stereotypes that emphasize aggression or attitude, rather than skill or leadership. They’re criticized for showing emotion, intensity, or confidence—variously labeled as "angry" or "disrespectful”—while white female athletes might be praised for displaying the same behaviors. Marketability and endorsements is also a theme in the novel. White female athletes are often perceived as more “marketable” and receive more endorsements and sponsorships, even if their performance isn’t better than a Black counterpart. And watch out if a Black female athlete makes a mistake.

Sports is a window into who we are as a people and what we value—and who we value. Sometimes sport has the potential to unite. And sometimes it reveals the ugliest parts of the human condition.

For those wondering about an audiobook, I’m currently negotiating the details with Tantor. I don’t have a release date or a narrator yet, but it will be happening.

In the meantime, I hope you get hooked on these characters and their journey. And I hope you’ll let me know what you think!

Prost,

Eliza

New Release: Lighthouse Keeper

I'm normally much better at willpower and self-control, but I couldn't wait any longer. April 8th, my original release date, was simply too far away. So, since I'm self-published and am beholden to no publisher's scheduling, I hit that "publish now" button. Surprise!

Lighthouse Keeper is my first attempt at a historical romance novel, but research is not new or unfamiliar to me. Nearly every book I write demands massive amounts of research and attention to detail. How to grow wine grapes and turn them into a final product (Sour Grapes). A flight attendant's work schedule and how to make a personal airplane flight ready (The Woman in 3B). Schizophrenia and getting a wheelchair up a flight of stairs when no ramp is present (Fragmented). Survivalism and finding the perfect route from North Dakota to Utah by foot (Apophis). Being a female in the Marines and living with PTSD (Don't Call Me Hero). Just to name a few. It's also not my first attempt at writing an interracial romance. Those seem to be my forte for standalone novels these days. 

I have a PhD in American history, so it felt overdue that I should write a story set in the past. I already had a few ideas in my list of books to be written, but the plot for Lighthouse Keeper called to me so loudly, I almost had no choice but to write it next. 

The inspiration for the book came from a weekend trip my wife and I took to Provincetown, Massachusetts two Decembers ago. It was a warm and sunny day, so we went for a walk on the jetty at low tide. The rock wall protects the shoreline from erosion, but it's also a long, elevated path out to a sliver of sand where the lighthouse, Wood End, is located. I was completely charmed by all the Provincetowners who'd come out to rake the exposed ocean floor for clams and oysters, and as we approached the lighthouse it struck me what a lonely, isolated existence it must have been to be the lighthouse keeper at the end of the earth. 

I knew some of Provincetown's early history even before doing research of my own. It had been the original landing spot for the Pilgrims on the Mayflower before they moved to Plimouth. Wealth had come to the region first because of whaling and then fishing in the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. Portuguese immigrants, largely from the Azores islands had followed that wealth. Married Portuguese women rented rooms in their homes to single queer men while their husbands were at sea, earning P-town a reputation as a haven for queer folks and artists as early as the late 19th century. 

More research followed, first about lighthouse history and how the lanterns worked. I studied Azorean culture and history to better understand the push and pull factors of coming to America at century's end. I read Victorian Era advice manuals about how young white middle-class women were supposed to behave. I discovered old photography of Provincetown in the 1870s and mapped out the main streets. I inspected photos of train depots in Boston and Lowell, Mass to accurately depict the settings. Fashion and food! Manners and morals! I wanted to get everything right. 

Irrespective of all of this research, Lighthouse Keeper is still very much a love story. It's the spice and heart you've come to expect from me. It's a statement about inequity and injustice and the central characters trying to do what's right. Even if historical fiction isn't your usual genre, I hope you'll give these characters and this story a chance. 

What's next
I signed a contract with Tantor to produce audio for books 3-6 from the Don't Call Me Hero series. I had self-funded books 1 and 2 myself, so I'm happy that Tantor will make it possible to finish out the series (or what I’ve published so far). Lori Prince has been contracted to continue with the series. That was my one big demand from Tantor that they hire her to keep narrating these stories. Book 3 will be wide released on April 23rd with Books 4, 5, and 6 to follow in July, August, and September. 

I'm a little obsessed with women's college basketball these days (who isn't?), which has impacted my decision about which book I'm working on next. Book 7 for Don't Call Me Hero is still on the horizon, but my goal is to publish two standalones this year and publish DCMH7 in 2025.

That's all from me. I hope you enjoy Lizzy & Jo and Lighthouse Keeper! 

Eliza

Chapter Preview - Lighthouse Keeper

Seeing pictures from this year’s Women’s Week gave me a bit of FOMO, so here’s the first chapter of my forthcoming novel, Lighthouse Keeper (Spring 2024). It’s set in Provincetown, Mass when the fishing industry, not queer tourism, dominated the economy, and native-born Yankees and Portuguese from the Azores islands commingled. It’s also my first endeavor into sapphic historical fiction (Disguised as a Man trope). I’m hopeful that those of you who enjoy my contemporary romances will take a chance on this one, too.

Happy reading!

Lighthouse Keeper

CHAPTER ONE

Provincetown, Massachusetts – October 1874

Lizzy Darby closed her eyes. A fine sea spray caressed her face as the dory dipped up and down with each new choppy wave. The ocean wore an air of restlessness that afternoon, yet Lizzy, in her twenty-four years, had weathered far greater tempests. A fierce, capricious wind swirled around their small vessel, prompting her to pull her woolen cloak closer, a shield against both the elements and the impending chill. Her fingers held fast to the basket of provisions, guarding them from the whims of the sea. They were not too distant from the mainland, the safety of home within reach, but her parents’ general store had always thrived on prudence, and waste was an extravagance they could ill afford. 

Her father skillfully guided the dory through the briny expanse. They traveled without speaking; the long wooden oars dipped silently into the slate-blue waters that surrounded the clenched-fist forearm of Cape Cod. Their stopping point—Wood End Lighthouse—seemed to fall in and out of view, but Lizzy knew that they were the ones moving, not the earth itself. The narrow v-shaped stern sank forward as the dory crested each new wave, causing the lighthouse to periodically vanish from view until they rose above the waves, only to descend once more.

Lizzy had once been susceptible to seasickness, but the countless journeys over the years had hardened her to its effects. The errand was shorter these days, too. Wood End had recently been constructed to warn ships’ captains of the shoals and sandbars that lurked just below the white-grey foam. A second, older lighthouse, Long Point, was far more isolated along the same shoreline, but it had been abandoned not long ago in favor of Wood End. 

Lizzy’s bond with the ocean had always been one-sided—an unrequited love affair. Its unpredictability had been that which ritually drew her to the craggy shorelines of her hometown. The sea spoke of possibilities, and yet Lizzy had never traveled beyond Provincetown. It wasn't unusual for a young, unattached woman whose parents were of middling sort to be untraveled, however. Until the railroad had come to Provincetown the previous year, only fishermen and whalers experienced life beyond their insular existence.

Provincetown was bound by the sea, cut off from the world by the vastness of the ocean. Not a single road led in or out of the town. The only way to travel by land was to first head north, traversing a series of tall, rolling sand dunes, and to then follow a thin strip of beach along the northern shore line which was occasionally washed away by storms. Provincetown might as well have been an island for all it relied on the sea.

The completion of the fourteen-mile railroad extension had heralded a new era, with two inaugural trains carrying state dignitaries to Provincetown for a day-long celebration the year before. Lizzy and her friends had each dressed in their finest holiday attire for the occasion, reveling in the speeches, food, and an evening of dancing. It had been Lizzy's happiest memory since the Mary Celeste had been recovered off the shores of the Azores islands. The evening of frivolity had been a brief reprieve from the prolonged sorrow of all souls aboard having gone missing.

“Look lively.” Her father’s gruff warning shook Lizzy from her trance. Her eyes reopened and she focused on the rapidly approaching shoreline.

Lizzy rose to her feet and anticipated the moment when the flat bottom of the two-person dory slid along wet sand. She hopped free from the boat with her leather boots landing solidly on packed earth. She reached back for the wicker basket that held the weekly provisions for the lighthouse keeper, Mr. Thomas Howe.

“Be quick about it,” her father instructed. His grey-blue eyes scanned the somber sky. “Something’s blowing in.”

Lizzy nodded. She had no desire to dally. The sky had a foreboding look to it and daylight was precious at the end of the earth. She hefted the basket in her gloved hands and began the short march to Wood End.

Lizzy puffed out her cheeks. It was a short but strenuous trip from the shoreline to the solitary lighthouse. The temperatures had chilled with the season, but not enough that the sandy dunes were frozen solid. Her boots continually sank into soft sand and threatened to tangle in long sea grass that stretched out like grasping fingers. Lizzy hiked up her long skirt and petticoat to hasten the voyage, unconcerned by who might see her knee-length stockings. There was no use worrying about modesty and propriety out here. By the time she reached the lighthouse, she could feel the perspiration beaded on her forehead.

An act of Congress in 1826 had earmarked four acres of land at the extreme tip of Long Point for the establishment of a lighthouse to guide mariners into the busy harbor of Provincetown, Massachusetts. The original lighthouse—the Long Point light—had doubled as a school house. But the lighthouse had deteriorated over the years until residents feared a strong storm might destroy it. The square, pyramidal tower of Wood End had been constructed to replace the original lighthouse along the sandy curl of shoreline that stretched into the Atlantic. Its distinctive red light flashed every fifteen seconds from a height of forty-five feet above sea level. 

Lizzy dropped the wicker basket into soft sand and rearranged her many layers before knocking on the lighthouse door. There was no guarantee that Mr. Howe would hear her knock—he could have been high above sea level on the lighthouse’s black ironwork platform—but if so, he would have at least seen the dory’s approach. She and her father tried to make the supply trip every week at the same time, weather and tide permitting, so he knew when to anticipate their arrival. As the proprietors of the local general store, Lizzy's family had been tasked with supplying the new lighthouse and its devoted keeper just as they had when he was stationed at the original lantern.

Lizzy knocked on the closed door again. A rumble disturbed the air around her and she lifted her eyes to the sky. The sun had long disappeared behind a thick bank of clouds. She frowned at the dark grey that had overtaken the light blue hues.

“Mr. Howe!” she yelled through the closed door.

Lizzy looked back in the direction of the open sea where her father would be waiting with the dory. She could always leave the basket behind and pick it up when next they made a delivery. But Mr. Howe was getting on in years; the food delivery was only part of the obligation to visit. The lighthouse keeper was older than her father—older than any living person with whom she was acquainted, in fact.

Lizzy raised her hand again. The heavy wooden door swung open on its metal hinges before her closed fist could strike again. A slight figure filled the narrow doorway. The interior of the lighthouse was dark and Lizzy squinted to make out the person's face.

A slip of a figure, a delicately built young man, stared out at Lizzy from the shadowy door frame. He wore his wool cap low on his forehead; the low brim obscured his features even more. His rough-spun linen shirt was untucked in the front and his corduroy pants were stuffed into great, tall boots. Suspenders seemed to be the only apparatus keeping his pants aloft narrow hips. The material hung loose on his lanky figure. The skin around his exposed wrists was tan despite the fall season—he must have been Portuguese from one of the Azores Islands—Lizzy decided, not native-born like herself.

“Where’s Mr. Howe?” she demanded. Suspicion crept into the edges of her tone. 

“Lizzy?” A familiar voice called to her from beyond the young man.

The silent, dark man stepped backwards and turned away from the doorway. A second figure appeared in his place—the longtime lighthouse keeper, Mr. Howe.

“Ahh, right on time, my girl,” Mr. Howe beamed. He was missing a few teeth in his aged mouth, which gave him the appearance of a jack o’ lantern on All Hallows Eve. His complexion was ruddy, rough from over exposure to the sun and salty sea air. His white beard was wild and unkempt, and he wore his long white hair in a low ponytail against the nape of his neck. His formerly white undershirt was now grey—the color of seagulls. The straps of denim overalls clung to narrow knobby shoulders.

Lizzy nearly forgot the purpose of her trip. She stared beyond the old lighthouse keeper. “Who is that?”

Mr. Howe looked over his shoulder and back into Wood End. “Oh. That’s the new lad they sent," he dismissed. "Folks in the Light-Saving Service apparently think I’m getting too old to handle the lantern by myself. The boy's never wound a light before, but apparently that doesn't matter to anyone else." He turned back to the young woman and her basket. “What treats do you have for me this week?”

“Mother packed blueberry preserves.”

Mr. Howe’s ruddy features brightened. He sifted through the neatly packed basket until he found that for which he searched. The rest of the basket’s contents were momentarily forgotten as he twisted open the mason jar. Not bothering with utensils, he plunged a stubby finger into the opening and scooped out a glob of the purple jelly before shoving it into his mouth. Mr. Howe made a noise of approval.

Embarrassed on his behalf, Lizzy looked away from the eager, smacking mouth. “There-there’s more candles and some good lye soap,” she noted, eyes still cast to the sandy ground.

A second rumble caught both Mr. Howe and Lizzy’s attention.

“Go on now,” Mr. Howe instructed. “The winds are shifting. Don’t want you and your Pa caught in whatever’s coming.”

Lizzy nodded tersely. The trip to the mainland was typically untroubled, but the weather was unpredictable at the end of the earth, and she had no desire to bob around in the small dory. “Oh,” she said, suddenly remembering, “should we double the order for next time?”

“Double?” Mr. Howe questioned.

“The-the boy?” Lizzie verbally stumbled. “Your apprentice?” She didn’t know what else to call the young man.

“Oh, right!” Mr. Howe slapped his palm against the door frame. The sound and its proximity to Lizzy’s ear made her flinch. “I suppose the boy can’t live off of fish and seagulls forever. Although I’m not sure if his people eat much else. Those island people are a strange and silent breed, but at least they’re hardworking.”

Lizzy pursed her lips. “Take care, Mr. Howe.”

She tried to catch another glimpse of the young man who had originally opened the door, but he had gone. The space behind Mr. Howe was vacant. Lizzy clutched the now-empty basket tighter to her chest and began the brisk walk back to her father and the waiting dory.

* * *

Lizzy Darby leaned against a counter in her parents' general store. Business had been slow that morning with few customers trickling into the shop to buy fresh produce or home goods or even a yard of cloth for a new dress. Even though she'd only been on her feet for a few hours that day, Lizzy longed to slip out of her heels and rest her aching feet.

Her father commanded the only proper seat in the family-run shop—a tall stool behind the counter that displayed finery like women's silk scarves and silver cigarette cases. Few transactions were made in that section of the store, but her father still insisted on carrying the high-cost items in hopes of attracting a more monied clientele. 

His head was bent forward as he read from the newspaper. He alternated between stroking his oiled beard as he read and sipping strong coffee from a porcelain cup. Lizzy frowned at the blatant hypocrisy; her parents forbade her from sitting during working hours or from reading one of her library books, but apparently those rules didn't apply to her father. 

The morning had been made longer by the general pleasantness of sunshine that beckoned to her through the storefront's plate glass window. The rest of the shop was dark and gloomy, and the greys of winter would soon be upon them. The unshakeable dreariness of weeks without seeing the sun was made even more bitter by icy winds that whipped off the semi-frozen harbor that compelled a body to remain inside. It seemed like such a waste. Lizzy longed to stretch her legs and fill her lungs with sea air and to feel the sun's heat upon her face rather than being cooped up in the family store with its floor-to-ceiling shelving crammed with crates, boxes, and barrels.

Lizzy's wistful melancholy was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Lizzy blinked at the tan, weathered hand thrust in front of her. She shook her head. "Sorry. Can I help you?”

The elderly woman who stood before her was small with fine bones filling out her diminutive frame. Dark, serious eyes stared back at Lizzy from under a thick head scarf. Her dress and cloak were constructed from sturdy, but shapeless material.

The aged hand slowly opened to reveal a folded piece of parchment and a few crumpled bills of paper currency. The woman did not speak—she might not know the language, Lizzy assumed. Because the Portuguese were so plentiful in Provincetown, many had little need to learn English. They stayed relatively isolated and self-sufficient on the west side of town with their own rituals and traditions while native-born Yankees remained on the east. Only a brief venture to Commercial Street to restock necessities warranted them leaving their insular community.

Carefully, as if she expected the small Portuguese woman to clamp her fist shut around her reaching fingers, Lizzy plucked the piece of paper from the outstretched palm. When she unfolded the small piece of paper, she realized it was a list—a grocery list. The words were English. Someone else—a child perhaps based on the penmanship—had written down the items on the page.

Lizzy scanned the scant list and then held up a finger. “I’ll be right back,” she told the old woman. She spoke slowly and with more volume than her usual voice typically carried even though the woman probably didn’t understand her anyway.

Lizzy gathered all of the items from the elderly woman’s list. She methodically swooped around her parents’ store; she’d spent so many hours on the floor of the general store, she probably could have achieved the task blindfolded. A sack of dried beans. Canned tomatoes. A package of flour. A container of molasses. A tin of loose leaf tobacco and a box tea. A few apples still fresh from the fall picking. She secured everything in the basket the woman had brought with her and counted out her leftover change.

“All done,” Lizzy loudly announced. She held up both hands and wiggled her fingers, not quite knowing how to convey to the foreign-speaking woman that the transaction was complete.

“Lizzy!” Her mother’s voice called to her from another part of the store.

“Coming!” Lizzy hollered back. She looked back briefly at the old woman who hadn’t moved since her arrival. Lizzy waved in parting and hoped it was a gesture universally understood.

Lizzy found her mother in the back storeroom, struggling with the weight of a tall wooden barrel. She hurried beside her mother and helped maneuver the heavy and awkward container from one corner of the room to another.

Her mother heaved a great sigh once the task was complete. "Thank you, my dear. It would be nice having some more help at the store with these kinds of things,” she opined, wiping her dusty hands on the front of her apron. “Male help.”

Lizzy didn’t suppress an eye roll. “Subtle, mother. I think we’re managing just fine, the three of us.”

“Your father and I won’t be around forever.”

Lizzy had heard the soliloquy so many times, she could recite her mother’s words by heart. “I know, I know. Who will take care of me when you’re gone? I’m years past my prime! No man will desire me if I don’t marry soon.”

Sarah Darby pressed her lips together. “I know I’m tiresome, my heart. But you can’t grieve Edward forever.”

At the mentioning of Edward’s name, Lizzy’s mood soured. She knew her mother was right, of course, but logic could never fill the vacancy in her heart.

“Let me make you a new dress, Lizzy," her mother implored. "We have so many pretty fabrics in the shop. It would do you well to have something with a bit of color.”

“Black is a color,” Lizzy said sullenly.

Sarah Darby regarded seriously her only child. The black dresses, frocks, and bonnets were the only clothing her daughter had gravitated to in the two years since the crew of the Mary Celeste had gone missing off the shores of the Azores islands.

She tried to be gentle with her next words, but she knew her daughter needed to hear them: “You can’t be a widow if you’ve never married.”

Lizzy felt the prick of emotion at the corners of her hazel eyes. She bit her tongue to avoid lashing out at her well-meaning mother. She turned abruptly on her heels and stomped out of the back storeroom.

The front of the family store was thankfully empty, save her father who continued to ignore the outside world in favor of his newspaper. Lizzy didn’t know if she could have affixed a false smile to her face otherwise. 

She pressed the heel of her palm over her sheltered heart as if her mother’s words had injured. They had—but not physically. She pressed her palm harder against her chest if only to remind herself that although Edward was gone, she still lived. The heartbeat was faint beneath the multiple layers of cotton, but it was still there.

Gentle, tender Edward. Too soft-hearted and sensitive for the sea, she’d thought. But her protests had fallen on deaf ears. Edward’s father and his father before him had been ship masters. It was his birthright to captain his own vessel, to follow the family business, even though Lizzy had insisted he could work at her family’s shop instead. But just as he’d been gentle, Edward had also been proud and stubborn.

Lizzy returned to her post at the front of the store. Her melancholy gaze scanned over the various objects on the glass counter—the coffee grinder, metal scale, and cash register—until it stopped on something that shouldn’t have still been there. The old Portuguese woman had left behind her spare change. With little thought beyond the desire to return it, Lizzy swept her hand over the countertop and collected the loose coins.

She closed her fingers around the coinage. “I’ll be back!” she shouted, although she couldn’t be sure if her mother or father would actually hear her.

Not bothering to gather her coat and hat, Lizzy bolted out the front door of her parents' shop. She looked in either direction on Commercial Street—the busy central roadway of Provincetown’s small, but dense downtown. The wide wooden sidewalks were busy with early morning shoppers and business people. Sailors in between voyages to the Grand Banks loitered on the sidewalks with their pockets full of coin. Lizzy didn’t immediately see the elderly woman and didn’t know in which direction she had gone, but she gambled that she would be headed home to the West End where the majority of Provincetown’s large Portuguese population resided. Lizzy took off at a brisk pace, weaving between the bodies leisurely meandering Commercial Street on that bright October day.

Lizzy rushed past the fish-drying racks covered in cod and mackerel, the spoils of whatever fishing vessel had recently docked in one of Provincetown's numerous wharf. She routinely pinched her nose to stem off the pungent scent. She hurried past John L. Rich’s Emporium, one of the grandest stores on Commercial Street with its wide selection of boots, shoes, and men’s clothing. Groups of children played in the vacant space beside the little school house and the newly opened public library of which Lizzy was a frequent visitor. She hustled beyond W.H.H. Weston’s shop filled with stoves, metalware, and glassware, and the grand Pilgrim House that welcomed out-of-town visitors. Men and women in clothes finer than anything Lizzy had ever owned conversed on the green lawn or lingered in the white-painted gazebo.

Lizzy had nearly given up hope of ever tracking down the woman from her parents' store when she spotted a small, darkly attired figure crossing the street. Lizzy was out of breath from her hastened pace; she yearned to cast away the unforgiving corset that compressed her lungs and other vital organs beneath the heavy material of her dress and petticoat. Instead, she waved her hands maniacally above her head in hope that the elderly woman might see her.

The woman turned her head in either direction to watch for carriage and horse traffic. As she did, she seemed to spot Lizzy’s flailing movements. But instead of acknowledging her, the old woman only seemed to quicken her pace and try to escape across the busy intersection. Lizzy exhaled in frustration and pushed the hair that had worked its way free from her braided brunette plait away from her forehead. She’d never had to work so hard to do a good deed.

Lizzy lifted her skirt above her ankles and gingerly stepped into the road, which had been made muddy from recent rainfall and horse traffic. “Ma’am!” she called out. “Wait!”

The elderly Portuguese woman looked over her shoulder, but continued to flee. In her haste to inexplicably escape, the woman didn't take notice of the man on horseback. The horse reared up on its back legs and its rider gave a great shout. The elderly woman stopped short in the middle of the street. Her hands flew up as if to shield herself.

Lizzy gasped and closed her eyes. She couldn't bear to witness whatever might happen next. More indistinguishable shouting filled the air. Finally, when the sounds around her had quieted, Lizzy opened her eyes.

She expected disaster. She anticipated seeing the elderly woman's mangled and trampled body in the middle of Commercial Street. Instead, Lizzy spotted some of the canned items she had so carefully secured in the woman’s shopping basket rolling free in the street. The Portuguese woman, flustered but visibly unharmed, stooped to retrieve the errant items.

“Let me help!” Lizzy called out in a rush. She wished she knew just a few words in Portuguese—anything, really. She crouched beside the woman and reached for one of the sealed cans.

The woman made a displeased noise and slapped at Lizzy’s outstretched hand. The woman was older, but deceptively strong. Lizzy gasped at the force of the woman’s fingers striking the top of her hand. The older woman yelled at her, but Lizzy couldn’t understand a word. Her tone, however, indicated her deep disapproval.

A second voice, speaking the same unrecognizable language joined the fray. It was soft, but of a lower register than Lizzy's own.

Lizzy turned her head to see a young man, his skin dark from the sun. His flat wool cap was pulled low over his eyebrows. He could have been anyone, any stranger on the street, but Lizzy realized she knew who it was—the new lighthouse keeper.

Whatever the young man had said seemed to calm the older woman.

Lizzy stood back and watched the man assist the other woman where her own help had been angrily denied. He crouched beside the old woman and collected the items that had tumbled into the street. 

In broad daylight, Lizzy was able to more fully inspect the new lighthouse keeper. He was far younger than Mr. Howe, but perhaps not much younger than herself. His cap continued to obscure most of his facial features, so she couldn't be sure of his age. His dark hair was cut short and he was clean shaven unlike Mr. Howe’s wild and unkempt facial hair. Enough time at Wood End would no doubt change that. He wore a light grey knitted sweater with a small tear near the neck. A bit of olive-tinted skin appeared through the moth-eaten hole.

“I’m sorry,” Lizzy spoke aloud. “She doesn’t seem to want my help."

The apology caught the young man’s attention. He looked up briefly but then finished assisting the woman with her basket. He said a few gentle words to her before standing to his full height. It wasn’t a great height, Lizzy observed. He was barely taller than herself in heels.

His dark eyes were serious beneath the low brim of his flat cap. “She said you were chasing her. She said she paid you already. She’s no thief.”

Lizzy blinked, suddenly realizing the misunderstanding. “Oh! I was chasing her, but not because of that.”

The man tilted his head. His eyelashes were surprisingly lush and long. Lizzy couldn’t remember ever being in such close proximity to a man from the Azores islands, however, so maybe they all had long eyelashes.

“Sh-she forgot her change.” Lizzy opened her hand to reveal the forgotten coins. It wasn’t much. The meagerness of the money had her suddenly embarrassed that she’d practically run down the entirety of Commercial Street.

The young lighthouse keeper said something to the older woman, presumably in her native tongue. She didn’t verbally respond, but she thrust her hand in Lizzy’s direction. Lizzy dropped the change into the open palm and returned the coins. The elderly woman spoke a few foreign words, still sounding cross, before she collected her basket and stomped away with a slight hitch in her gait.

“I don’t suppose that was a thank you,” Lizzy muttered to herself.

The lighthouse keeper's sharp laugh surprised her ears. She turned to regard the snickering man. “Is that funny to you?”

The man shoved his hands into the pockets of his oversized pants. He silently grinned. It was an obnoxious grin, Lizzy thought. It wasn’t cruel, but it was still at her expense.

Lizzy made her own haughty noise. She spun away, causing the bottom of her skirt to momentarily bloom at her ankles.

“Don’t be mad!” the man called after her.

Lizzy didn’t humor the infuriating man. She would be cross if she felt like it. She could hear soft, quick steps beside her, but she didn’t slow down her own quickened pace.

“Please. I didn’t mean to offend.” The man’s voice held only a slight accent, curling at its edges.

“You did,” Lizzy retorted. She continued to walk along Commerce Street at a quick clip. “And I was only trying to be kind.”

The young lighthouse keeper dodged a few individuals on the sidewalk to keep pace. “I know. Which is why I shouldn’t have laughed. Not many Yankees would have gone out of their way like that.”

The words had Lizzy finally slowing. “What did she say to me?”

“It wasn’t an ancient curse, I promise you.” The man grinned again.

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” Lizzy fumed.

The new lighthouse keeper held up his hand. “I’m sorry. She only said that you should learn Portuguese. That way, eighty-year-old women’s hearts don’t fail trying to run away from well-meaning shop girls.”

The words were humbling. Lizzy bit her lower lip. “She’s right. I should learn.”

The man's playful grin shifted to a look of curiosity. "Qual é o teu nome?"

"Excuse me?"

"It's Portuguese. I asked about your name."

The question was unexpected, but Lizzy had no reason to lie or withhold information. "Oh, it's Lizzy. Lizzy Darby.”

“Lizzy Darby," the young man repeated. "Your family owns the general store. That’s why you came to Wood End yesterday.”

Lizzy nodded.

A small mischievous smile appeared on the man's tan face. “And why you chased Mrs. Trigueiro for a mile.”

“It wasn’t a mile!” Lizzy said hotly.

The man touched his fingers to the brim of his wool cap. Dark eyes sparkled with mirth under the bright October morning. “I have to get back. Master Howe will have my hide if I’m late to winding the light.”

“You never told me your name,” Lizzy said.

The lighthouse keeper began to walk backwards in the direction of the central wharf. He shoved his hands into his oversized pockets and grinned his maddening grin. “Until we meet again, Lizzy Darby.”

New Release! Stolen Hearts (DCMH6)

Exhale. That’s how I feel whenever I release a new book into the wild. For standalone novels, the anxiety comes with a new story, new characters, and a new love story that I hope you’ll find compelling. For Don’t Call Me Hero, my longest running series to date, the nervousness comes from a multitude of places. Have I done the characters justice? Will readers still think this is a good match? Have I blended an adequate cold case crime with character development and moved their romance along? Or, have I jumped the shark? The latter question might be the most pressing question—the one that keeps me awake, staring at the ceiling, long after the rest of the house has gone to bed.

I’ve written about this elsewhere with the Winter Jacket series, but there’s a unique kind of pressure that comes with writing a series. It’s not just continuity (what color did I say that character’s eyes were three books ago?). It’s loyalty. You have invested time (and money!) with these characters. And with that carries a certain responsibility to do right by Cassidy & Julia, and you.

The early receipts seem to signify that I did alright. I didn’t let you down. That you’re still invested in more stories featuring these two. And as long as this remains true, you can be assured that I have many more stories to tell.

What’s next? I’ll hit the pause button on DCMH and turn my attention to a short story I promised for an iReadIndies anthology. Once that’s complete, my next novel will be a standalone. Lighthouse Keeper will be my first attempt at historical fiction. It will still be a sapphic love story, but this time the story takes place in 1874 in Provincetown, Massachusetts. I’m reading a lot these days about how lighthouses work.

Prost,

Eliza

10 Years of Winter Jacket

“This is probably a giant mistake,” I muttered more to myself than to her, before crushing my mouth against hers.”

Winter Jacket, May 15, 2013

Today marks the 10th publishing anniversary of the original Winter Jacket. 10 years since that broken classroom heater. 10 years of Ellio and Hunter. Since then, the novel has become a 5-book series and has been masterfully narrated on audiobook by Angela Dawe (we stan a queen).

It’s wild to think about changes that have occurred in the past 10 years. In 2013, same-sex marriage was still decided upon state-by-state in the United States. TikTok didn’t exist (I mean, it still doesn’t exist for me, but I hear that it’s a thing). A giant Cheeto hadn’t resided in the White House yet. It’s even wilder to think about the changes that have occurred in my own life since May 2013. I got married. I moved to Boston. I got my dream job.

I owe so much to Winter Jacket and to YOU who took a chance on a self-published author who has seriously just bumbled her way into publishing close to 25 novels. With tomorrow’s release of Stolen Hearts (Don’t Call Me Hero, book 6), I’ll have officially published 23 novels with many more on the way!

Thank you, thank you, thank you for ten years of support. Thank you for reading and reviewing. Thank you for supporting sapphic literature. Thank you for raising up self-published authors.

Eternally grateful,

Eliza

Stolen Hearts - sneak preview

We’re about a month away from the release of Stolen Hearts — book six in the Don’t Call Me Hero Series. It was also my birthday last weekend, so here’s my present to you (that’s how these things work, right?) Please enjoy the (NSFW) prologue to the latest installment of Cassidy & Julia’s adventures together.

PROLOGUE

“I still don’t understand the appeal.” Julia ran her fingertips along the gunmetal grey handlebars of my Harley Sportster. “It’s not a very practical vehicle."

Julia had met me after work at the facility where I stored my motorcycle during the winter months. I was born and raised in Minnesota—with an eight-year detour while being stationed in Afghanistan—but even my hearty upbringing had me admitting defeat to the upper Midwest’s brutal winter weather.

“Maybe not,” I admitted, “but I look damn good riding it.”

I watched Julia’s painted mouth part. The tip of her pink tongue poked out from between perfect teeth to flick at the barely visible scar above the right corner of her mouth. “That’s not the only thing you look good riding, dear.”

If her goal was to jumpstart my libido, she’d accomplished her mission—although it had never really taken much effort on her part to get me going.

I swung one long leg over my bike and settled onto the low seat. The motorcycle was only intended for one rider, but there was just enough room between where I sat and the gas tank for my girlfriend. Julia had never taken me up on my many offers to take her for a ride on my motorcycle, however.

"Come here," I urged.

Her upper lip curled momentarily. "Why?"

I patted the empty space in front of me. "I want to show you something."

"I'm not exactly dressed for a motorcycle ride," she rejected. 

Since she'd driven to the storage facility directly after work, she still wore her work clothes from the day—dark grey dress pants and a matching jacket with a dark purple shell underneath. She always looked like she'd stepped off the pages of a glossy magazine, even after a long day of litigation.

I patted the leather seat again and showed her my teeth. "I promise you'll like it."

I spied the quick roll of her caramel-colored eyes, but then had to suppress a victory whoop when Julia stepped closer to me and my bike. 

She eyeballed the motorcycle with trepidation. "I've never been on one of these things."

I started up the bike and cranked on the throttle to make the engine roar. "Glad I can be your first time at something," I said cheekily. 

Julia pursed her lips. I could see her mentally wrestling between wanting to put up a fight but also her curiosity about what I wanted to show her. 

"It's just like riding a regular bicycle," I assured her. "Toss one leg over the seat and sit down."

"You're not planning on driving this thing in here, are you?" she openly worried.

I could have felt insulted that she'd called my beloved motorcycle a thing, but I was too focused on getting her on the bike to feign injury about her unfavorable word choice. 

"We won't move an inch. I promise."

I kept my feet firmly planted on the concrete floor to make sure the bike wouldn't wobble when Julia finally got into position. Experience with this woman told me she would bolt the moment she believed I had ulterior motives. I did have ulterior motives, but it had nothing to do with taking her on a joyride around the storage garage.

Julia sturdied herself with her hands firm on my shoulders before she swung one leg over the leather seat of the Harley. She gingerly lowered herself until she sat in the empty space between my own body and the chrome gas tank.

I leaned forward until my chest pressed against her back. With my leather jacket and her wool blazer sandwiched between us, I couldn't feel much of anything. But this wasn't about me; it was all intended for her.

"Scooch up a little," I coaxed. "And grab onto the handlebars."

Julia slid forward on the seat, but didn't immediately reach for the handlebars.

I kept my boots firm on the ground. I rested my hands on her hips. "I've got you, don't worry." I tightened my hold on her body. "We're not going to move,” I reiterated. “I promise I won't let us tip over."

Julia tentatively reached for the handlebars. She lightly rested her manicured hands on either bar. I was impressed by her willingness to trust me and follow my instructions. An earlier version of Julia Desjardin would have been stomping out of the storage facility by now. I was being purposefully vague about my intentions, which she typically didn't have the patience for.

I pressed myself more fully against her back. I leaned forward so she could feel my breath at the back of her neck. "Now open up the throttle."

She turned her head, but with me seated behind her, she couldn't quite address me directly. "The what?"

"Twist the right handle toward you."

I watched the delicate muscles and fine bones of her right wrist shift as she twisted the right handle. The motorcycle's engine growled. Although we didn’t budge—like I’d promised—Julia's hand immediately jerked away from the handle with the increased volume. The engine returned to its gentle, idling purr.

"It's okay," I tried to assure her. "It'll get loud, but we're not going to move. Just imagine you're pressing the gas pedal on your Mercedes when it's in neutral."

Julia's hand returned to the right handle. I watched her tapered fingers curl around the bar and twist. When the engine roared again, this time she didn't let go.

I pressed more fully against her back. "Can you feel that?"

Julia didn't immediately respond. I set my right hand on top of hers and cranked harder on the throttle until the engine screamed and whined. I pinned her hand beneath my own and refused to let up. The entire chassis vibrated with pent-up energy.

I grinned when I finally heard her reaction: "For fuckssake."

Multiple layers of wool, cotton, and lace existed between her naked skin and the metal gas tank, but I anticipated the constant vibrations she would be experiencing between her parted thighs. The metal gas tank itself behaved like one oversized vibrator.

I could feel Julia's body wiggle beneath my own. I wasn't sure if she was trying to put more space between herself and the quivering motorcycle or if she was only getting comfortable. Either way, I didn't intend for her to get off so easily.

Correction: that's exactly what I wanted to happen.

With my right hand still tightly gripping the respective handlebar, my left hand was free to wander. I sought the bottom hem of her silk shell and slid beneath the front of her shirt. My fingers made contact with naked skin and then the lacy material of her bra. I didn't need sight; I felt my way beneath the bra's underwire until my fingertips brushed across her nipple. I pinched the puckered bud between my middle finger and my thumb, alternating between punishing pressure and a light, tender touch.

"Cassidy." Julia's voice came out like a choking gasp.

I eased up on the throttle, not wanting to overwhelm her senses. Her body collapsed forward, but I kept her steady with an arm around her waist. I didn't let her recover entirely. I revved the engine again and surged my body forward. Pinned between my body and the motorcycle’s trembling gas tank, there was no place for her to go. Her hands fell to my upper thighs and she dug her short, polished nails into my rough work pants. Her nails bit through the thick material. I pictured the half-moon welts she would leave behind—battle wounds I could be proud of.

The engine whined, but no louder than my girlfriend. After a few minutes of constant contact, I felt her entire body spasm. Her head fell forward and she seemed to surrender herself to the quaking between her thighs. I could hear her uncensored cries above the aggressive spewing and sputtering of my Harley.

I gently eased off the throttle for a final time. The bike shuddered, almost as intensely as the woman in my arms. I held her close and breathed her in. 

"That wasn't very nice," she murmured.

"No?" I said innocently. I brushed at the dark hair that fell across the nape of her neck. "I thought I was being extra nice."

“If I didn’t know any better,” she remarked, “I would have thought you’d planned this all along.”

I leaned back in my seat and grinned. “You know me, babe. I’m more of a pantser than a plotter.”

Julia, miraculously, stood from the motorbike. I stared up at her long, lean figure and her elegant pantsuit. If my hands were on her thighs I wondered if I'd feel them shake.

She calmly flicked a lock of glossy, raven-black hair behind one ear. “I think it’s time I get you home and get rid of said pants.”

I looked around the seemingly empty storage facility. I knew we had the building to ourselves. An acquaintance of my friend Brent owned the warehouse. He generously let me store my bike in the temperature-controlled storage space during the winter months for a nominal fee.

My hands went to my heavy leather belt. I loosened the belt buckle and tugged until the ends fell free. “Why wait?”

A distinct smug feeling washed over me when I realized I’d managed to shock Julia Desjardin. Her look of surprise seamlessly morphed into boredom a split second later. But it was too late. I’d caught her having an emotion.

"How many other women have you dismantled with your traveling vibrator?" she wondered.

I couldn't stifle my sharp laugh. "Have vibrator. Will travel."

Julia continued to stare. I realized her question hadn't been rhetorical. 

I shut off my bike and stood up. "I only got the bike when I joined the police academy. It was my first 'adult' purchase after coming back to the States."

Julia folded her arms across her chest. "That's not an answer."

"As soon as I felt that vibration, pretty much the first time I took the bike out for a ride, I wanted to do that with someone. I thought about it," I admitted, "but it never happened with anyone else."

Julia's features softened. "It's nice I can be your first time at something."

"You're my first a lot of things," I ventured.

"Such as?" she wanted to know.

"My first real relationship. The first person I've really been in love with. The first person I could see spending the rest of my life with."

I licked my lips. The conversation had become unexpectedly heavy in a short amount of time. I'd half-assedly proposed marriage to her once; I didn't want her to think I was doing it again. She deserved an elaborate proposal with multiple moving parts. I wiggled my eyebrows. "I think there's enough gas in the tank if you wanna have another go."

"Not here," she decided. "You might be surprised, but motor oil doesn't play a part in my fantasies."

"Fantasies?" An eager smile formed on my lips. "You've been holding out on me?"

Julia grabbed me by the front of my pants, forcing my breath to hitch. "All in good time, darling."