Rian Kelley's Blog, page 5
August 2, 2013
July 22, 2013
Stay Tuned. . .
After a severe bout of bronchitis!! I am on the mend and getting ready to launch book 2 in the California Dreamy series, ETHAN. Nine days and counting. . .
July 12, 2013
Free to Kindle this Weekend
Starting tonight you can download the first three chapters of California Dreamy: Ethan onto your Kindle for free. I'm doing this as a promo, with the full length novel available for purchase from Amazon as of July 31, 2013. Follow the link below:
http://www.amazon.com/Tease-California-Dreamy-Series-ebook/dp/B00DW0NCGY/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1373687308&sr=1-3&keywords=california+dreamy
http://www.amazon.com/Tease-California-Dreamy-Series-ebook/dp/B00DW0NCGY/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1373687308&sr=1-3&keywords=california+dreamy
July 8, 2013
Another Tempting Teaser
ETHAN, from the California Dreamy Series, will be available later this month. In the meantime, I hope you will enjoy this small excerpt from the novel:
Shae liked Ethan’s sister. She wasn’t pouting. She didn’t look at Ethan or Shae with indifference. She had none of that attitudeShae had come to expect from the age group. Entitlement. Just the thought left a bad taste in her mouth. But Eva Abrams was bold and mischievous and it was a beguiling combination.She extended her hand to Shae and introduced herself. “I haven’t seen all of your movies,” she admitted, “but I loved ‘At Long Last.’ It was beautiful and painful and so right.” And then she quoted a line from the movie, just seven words, but Shae had agonized over them for hours. Maybe even days. The words had become a mantra among select groups. They were tweeted and tumbled and smashed and pinned, and words Shae had written had become urban lingo. She couldn’t help smiling into Eva’s exuberance.“Thanks. I love when that happens.” It was true. It wasn’t often, but when Shae was fed words she had written, it made her world spin a little faster.“I’ll try to come up with a few more,” Eva promised.But Shae shook her head. “Not necessary.”Eva glanced over her shoulder and Shae followed her gaze. Ethan stood back a few feet, hands stuffed into the front pocket of his jeans.“He’s a little nervous,” Eva confided in a stage whisper.“Eva,” Ethan warned.“He’ll start rolling back on his heels soon,” Eva predicted. “That’s his one and only nervous habit. You see, the problem is—““That I have an interfering sister,” Ethan finished for her and moved close enough he could slide between them.Eva stood on tip-toe and gazed at Shae over her brother’s shoulder. “And no writing talent. Our sister, Emme, wrote all his papers for him in high school.”Shae watched a hint of color climb into Ethan’s cheeks. A blush, on a man of his size, was, well, endearing. “That’s true,” he admitted. “But I paid well for them.”Eva nodded. “He had a job at the Chevron station.”Silence ensued and then Shae laughed. It was a deep, from the belly laugh, and it felt good. This was it. Exactly what she wanted to return to. Family. The squabbles and the tender moments. She wanted to be there now. She should be there tomorrow. And she had a plan. This time next year, a baby—or almost.A smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Don’t encourage her.”“You guys remind me of home,” Shae said. “And knowing how siblings argue, I’m inclined to believe only half of what I’ve heard.”“What half?” Ethan asked.“That Eva is interfering, of course.” It was obvious, but the younger woman crossed her arms over her chest and her smiled wavered. She had the grace not to protest her innocence, though. “And that you can’t write. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”“I’m stuck,” he reminded her.“But not nervous?” Shea probed.“Hell, yes, I am.”“Why?”“We’ll get to that,” he promised. He turned and looked pointedly at his sister. “Eva has a few things to do.”“What things?” Eva asked, but her cell phone squawked again, with a few notes of a Rolling Stones tune. “Those things,” he said. “You don’t want to keep Kent waiting. Men aren’t any better with that than women.” He turned back to Shae. “My office is at the back of the house. I converted the sunroom, sort of.”He picked up her laptop and started walking.“You want something to drink before we start?”Something to drink and eat, she thought. It was, after all, twelve-thirty. Definitely within the lunch hour. And didn’t Stevie say something about food?“Ice tea?”“Sure.”They passed through the kitchen which was small for Hollywood standards, but then they weren’t in Kansas anymore. He had a few modern conveniences, granite and a breakfast alcove. He opened the refrigerator, grabbed two bottles of Arizona tea, and continued to the back of the house. The sunroom/office was all windows. Outside, clutches of fuchsia- and lavender-colored flowers bloomed in pots and a lap pool glistened under the sun. Shae glanced around the room. One desk. One chair. Desk top, printer, and a Synonym Finder that was about ten inches thick and frayed around the edges. There was a pile of paper on the floor that had been printed from the computer—the top sheet had several lines crossed out and notes written into the margin.Shae dropped her purse on the floor—there was nowhere else to put it—and turned full circle. The hemline of her blouse flared around her. The wedged heels of her sandals squeaked on the wood flooring. “Nice work space.”“Describe nice,” Ethan demanded.“Uncluttered?” she tried. She had a few other words that would do but each of them felt like criticism.“You can do better than that,” Ethan prodded. “What does this place reveal about me?”Because there was revelation in every thought and action… “Are you a minimalist?”His bark of laughter was a surprise. Shae had been trying for a neutral tone.“Evidence?”She shrugged. “Small house. I saw a toaster and a blender in the kitchen, but no espresso machine.” She nodded toward his desk. “There’s nowhere for me to sit.”“I can fix that.” He placed her laptop on the only chair and strode across the room. He disappeared through the door and Shae could almost see the air ripple with his passing. Weird. The man could move. Nothing flashy, but strong, economical progress that left her a little dizzy. He returned with a chair from the kitchen table. Wood lattice back but the seat was cushioned.“I just moved in,” he explained. “Well, seven months ago.” He smiled, abashed. “Redecorating, remodeling any of that will have to wait.”“Until you’re done with this project?”“Yes.” He stared at her. “What was the other comment? Oh, yeah, ‘small house.’ There’s only me, so I don’t need a lot of room. Never really had any. I grew up in a ranch house and had my own bedroom only because gender singled me out. Then it was the military—you never get more than elbow room in the service. It also makes a guy something of a minimalist. Your possessions are whittled down to what you can carry.”“I didn’t mean it as a judgment.”He ignored that. “Notice anything else?”Well, since he asked, “You move a lot.” Not really a nervous energy, because Shae recognized a contained kind of strength in Ethan. He had a stunning physique, with well-defined muscle and sleek lines, broad shoulders and chest, thighs that strained against the material of his faded jeans. Powerful was a more apt description of him. And yet, she got the impression that he was feeling a little edgy.What was up with that? she wondered. Exactly what had he called her here to wrestle with?She remembered Stevie’s words, that Ethan had first-time jitters—another description she had a hard time applying to the man. He was just too . . .together. “That’s pretty much a state of being for me,” he admitted. “I’m in constant motion. I think I have a vestibular thing going on,” he explained.Shae tilted her head, considering that. She’d heard the term before but couldn’t quite come up with its meaning.“It’s one of our senses, it’s all about movement. I think I need more than the average person.”“No transcendental meditation for you?”His smile was big and full of amusement. It made her heart cartwheel. “No. Although it would be a viable form of torture should you need to use it.”“You’re giving away your secrets?”“I haven’t even begun.” His voice thinned and Shae realized the man had a true case of the nerves. “I promise to go easy.”But he shook his head. “I want honesty.”“The truth doesn’t have to draw blood.”“You have to sink your teeth into this,” he returned. “Otherwise we’re wasting time.”She sat in the chair he’d brought in and lifted her hands. “So give it to me.”He opened a desk drawer and pulled out an Apple Tablet. “I converted it for you.”“It would have been easier if you’d just e-mailed it to me,” she pointed out. “I could have come in ready.”But he shook his head. And he was still holding onto the Tablet, his arms crossed over it and pressing it to his chest. This wasn’t going to be easy.“You’re going to have to give it to me,” she prompted.“I know.” But he looked grim about it.Again, unexpected. Standing in front of her was Ethan Abrams, award-winning director. Man of arms. He’d faced down the enemy, tackled Hollywood and was now King of the Mountain, and yet the man who stood before her was acting a lot more like Clark Kent than a super hero.“Why don’t we talk first? Tell me the storyline.”“It’s autobiographical,” he confessed.Shae nodded as understanding moved deeply inside her. “That’s never good.”Ethan’s eyes flared slightly. “What happened to the gentle approach?”“That was gift-wrapped in kindness. You should know better,” she pointed out. “How long have you been in this business? Ten years?”“Eight.”“The first rule of success, no one cares who you are.”“Until you’ve made it.”“Is that your angle?” She felt a little dip of disappointment. “You’re going to capitalize off your name?"“Absolutely not.”
Shae liked Ethan’s sister. She wasn’t pouting. She didn’t look at Ethan or Shae with indifference. She had none of that attitudeShae had come to expect from the age group. Entitlement. Just the thought left a bad taste in her mouth. But Eva Abrams was bold and mischievous and it was a beguiling combination.She extended her hand to Shae and introduced herself. “I haven’t seen all of your movies,” she admitted, “but I loved ‘At Long Last.’ It was beautiful and painful and so right.” And then she quoted a line from the movie, just seven words, but Shae had agonized over them for hours. Maybe even days. The words had become a mantra among select groups. They were tweeted and tumbled and smashed and pinned, and words Shae had written had become urban lingo. She couldn’t help smiling into Eva’s exuberance.“Thanks. I love when that happens.” It was true. It wasn’t often, but when Shae was fed words she had written, it made her world spin a little faster.“I’ll try to come up with a few more,” Eva promised.But Shae shook her head. “Not necessary.”Eva glanced over her shoulder and Shae followed her gaze. Ethan stood back a few feet, hands stuffed into the front pocket of his jeans.“He’s a little nervous,” Eva confided in a stage whisper.“Eva,” Ethan warned.“He’ll start rolling back on his heels soon,” Eva predicted. “That’s his one and only nervous habit. You see, the problem is—““That I have an interfering sister,” Ethan finished for her and moved close enough he could slide between them.Eva stood on tip-toe and gazed at Shae over her brother’s shoulder. “And no writing talent. Our sister, Emme, wrote all his papers for him in high school.”Shae watched a hint of color climb into Ethan’s cheeks. A blush, on a man of his size, was, well, endearing. “That’s true,” he admitted. “But I paid well for them.”Eva nodded. “He had a job at the Chevron station.”Silence ensued and then Shae laughed. It was a deep, from the belly laugh, and it felt good. This was it. Exactly what she wanted to return to. Family. The squabbles and the tender moments. She wanted to be there now. She should be there tomorrow. And she had a plan. This time next year, a baby—or almost.A smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Don’t encourage her.”“You guys remind me of home,” Shae said. “And knowing how siblings argue, I’m inclined to believe only half of what I’ve heard.”“What half?” Ethan asked.“That Eva is interfering, of course.” It was obvious, but the younger woman crossed her arms over her chest and her smiled wavered. She had the grace not to protest her innocence, though. “And that you can’t write. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”“I’m stuck,” he reminded her.“But not nervous?” Shea probed.“Hell, yes, I am.”“Why?”“We’ll get to that,” he promised. He turned and looked pointedly at his sister. “Eva has a few things to do.”“What things?” Eva asked, but her cell phone squawked again, with a few notes of a Rolling Stones tune. “Those things,” he said. “You don’t want to keep Kent waiting. Men aren’t any better with that than women.” He turned back to Shae. “My office is at the back of the house. I converted the sunroom, sort of.”He picked up her laptop and started walking.“You want something to drink before we start?”Something to drink and eat, she thought. It was, after all, twelve-thirty. Definitely within the lunch hour. And didn’t Stevie say something about food?“Ice tea?”“Sure.”They passed through the kitchen which was small for Hollywood standards, but then they weren’t in Kansas anymore. He had a few modern conveniences, granite and a breakfast alcove. He opened the refrigerator, grabbed two bottles of Arizona tea, and continued to the back of the house. The sunroom/office was all windows. Outside, clutches of fuchsia- and lavender-colored flowers bloomed in pots and a lap pool glistened under the sun. Shae glanced around the room. One desk. One chair. Desk top, printer, and a Synonym Finder that was about ten inches thick and frayed around the edges. There was a pile of paper on the floor that had been printed from the computer—the top sheet had several lines crossed out and notes written into the margin.Shae dropped her purse on the floor—there was nowhere else to put it—and turned full circle. The hemline of her blouse flared around her. The wedged heels of her sandals squeaked on the wood flooring. “Nice work space.”“Describe nice,” Ethan demanded.“Uncluttered?” she tried. She had a few other words that would do but each of them felt like criticism.“You can do better than that,” Ethan prodded. “What does this place reveal about me?”Because there was revelation in every thought and action… “Are you a minimalist?”His bark of laughter was a surprise. Shae had been trying for a neutral tone.“Evidence?”She shrugged. “Small house. I saw a toaster and a blender in the kitchen, but no espresso machine.” She nodded toward his desk. “There’s nowhere for me to sit.”“I can fix that.” He placed her laptop on the only chair and strode across the room. He disappeared through the door and Shae could almost see the air ripple with his passing. Weird. The man could move. Nothing flashy, but strong, economical progress that left her a little dizzy. He returned with a chair from the kitchen table. Wood lattice back but the seat was cushioned.“I just moved in,” he explained. “Well, seven months ago.” He smiled, abashed. “Redecorating, remodeling any of that will have to wait.”“Until you’re done with this project?”“Yes.” He stared at her. “What was the other comment? Oh, yeah, ‘small house.’ There’s only me, so I don’t need a lot of room. Never really had any. I grew up in a ranch house and had my own bedroom only because gender singled me out. Then it was the military—you never get more than elbow room in the service. It also makes a guy something of a minimalist. Your possessions are whittled down to what you can carry.”“I didn’t mean it as a judgment.”He ignored that. “Notice anything else?”Well, since he asked, “You move a lot.” Not really a nervous energy, because Shae recognized a contained kind of strength in Ethan. He had a stunning physique, with well-defined muscle and sleek lines, broad shoulders and chest, thighs that strained against the material of his faded jeans. Powerful was a more apt description of him. And yet, she got the impression that he was feeling a little edgy.What was up with that? she wondered. Exactly what had he called her here to wrestle with?She remembered Stevie’s words, that Ethan had first-time jitters—another description she had a hard time applying to the man. He was just too . . .together. “That’s pretty much a state of being for me,” he admitted. “I’m in constant motion. I think I have a vestibular thing going on,” he explained.Shae tilted her head, considering that. She’d heard the term before but couldn’t quite come up with its meaning.“It’s one of our senses, it’s all about movement. I think I need more than the average person.”“No transcendental meditation for you?”His smile was big and full of amusement. It made her heart cartwheel. “No. Although it would be a viable form of torture should you need to use it.”“You’re giving away your secrets?”“I haven’t even begun.” His voice thinned and Shae realized the man had a true case of the nerves. “I promise to go easy.”But he shook his head. “I want honesty.”“The truth doesn’t have to draw blood.”“You have to sink your teeth into this,” he returned. “Otherwise we’re wasting time.”She sat in the chair he’d brought in and lifted her hands. “So give it to me.”He opened a desk drawer and pulled out an Apple Tablet. “I converted it for you.”“It would have been easier if you’d just e-mailed it to me,” she pointed out. “I could have come in ready.”But he shook his head. And he was still holding onto the Tablet, his arms crossed over it and pressing it to his chest. This wasn’t going to be easy.“You’re going to have to give it to me,” she prompted.“I know.” But he looked grim about it.Again, unexpected. Standing in front of her was Ethan Abrams, award-winning director. Man of arms. He’d faced down the enemy, tackled Hollywood and was now King of the Mountain, and yet the man who stood before her was acting a lot more like Clark Kent than a super hero.“Why don’t we talk first? Tell me the storyline.”“It’s autobiographical,” he confessed.Shae nodded as understanding moved deeply inside her. “That’s never good.”Ethan’s eyes flared slightly. “What happened to the gentle approach?”“That was gift-wrapped in kindness. You should know better,” she pointed out. “How long have you been in this business? Ten years?”“Eight.”“The first rule of success, no one cares who you are.”“Until you’ve made it.”“Is that your angle?” She felt a little dip of disappointment. “You’re going to capitalize off your name?"“Absolutely not.”
June 26, 2013
Sneak Peek! California Dreamy: Ethan
Introducing Ethan Abrams, the newest hero in the California Dreamy Series: from Chapter Five--
Ethan thought about his options. He could hand over the Tablet peacefully and retain some of his male dignity. Or he could sit on it and stare Shae down, thus accomplishing nothing and reducing himself to the level of a two year old.
He held it out to her, but she had to use both hands to wrestle it away from him.
“It can’t be that bad,” she muttered.
She shook her head, but then that smiled bloomed on her lips—patient, knowing, sexy as hell. He felt his dick stir. He was definitely attracted to her. His skin had been humming ever since he’d stood on the other side of the gate, staring at her smiling profile.
“The writing is crap,” he told her. It was raw and real and it spilled onto the page in choppy lines and, sometimes, one word epitaphs. The man in those pages was a casualty. In his mind’s eye, Ethan saw his crumpled, blood-stained body and wanted to haul him over his shoulder and run him to the medics. Only the guy was him and he couldn’t save himself. He’d tried. “The events are real.” He struggled for his next words, “The emotions—” God, how he hated that word. It was worse than feelings and about on par with apocalypse. “—are a mess.”
She was already navigating through the first pages. She looked up and nailed him with her eyes.
“Who’s Tina?”
“My wife.”
“You said you weren’t married,” Shae pointed out. “And not divorced. So I’m assuming your wife passed away?” Her voice softened on her last words.
“Yes.”
She considered him for a moment. Her eyes were a startling shade of mid-summer sky. Ethan felt like he could free-float in her gaze, buoyed by the promise of carefree days and languid nights.
“Are you having trouble dealing with her loss?”
“No. I’ve worked through that.” That was his starting point when he took on this project. He’d thought it had to be Tina’s death holding him back and so he’d dove right into it. “It’s what happened before. I think.”
“How did she die?”
“Read and you’ll see.”
“What happened before?”
He pointed to the tablet. “It’s all in there.”
She laid the tablet in her lap and stared up at him. “Even if I read the whole thing, we’re going to have to talk about it.”
“You mean you’re thinking about not reading it?”
She sighed and Ethan watched conflict wage on her face.
“It’s six hundred and seventeen pages,” she pointed out.
Ethan flinched. He tried to stop it, but felt a blush roll up his neck and settle on his cheeks. What he’d written could comprise three or four screenplays. She probably thought he was an egomaniac.
“What else do you have to do with your time?” he tried for humor.
“I’m leaving town tomorrow.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Never.”
“What?”
“It’s a permanent move,” she explained, and Ethan heard defensiveness in her tone. “I want more than this town can offer me.”
Stevie had said something about Shae contemplating a move that would result in career suicide. He tried to remember his exact words.
“And it’s waiting for you in Mayberry?”
“Stevie talks too much.” She frowned and it put the cutest wrinkle between her eyebrows. “And it’s Mill valley. I grew up there.”
“They say you can never go home.”
“Who says that?” she challenged.
“The people who tried?”
“The people who have nothing waiting for them,” she corrected.
“And you do?”
“Yes.”
“And you can’t delay a few days?”
She held up the tablet. “It’s going to take longer than that.”
“A few weeks then?” He had the grace to look abashed. “I know it’s asking for a lot. And there’s really nothing I can do to pay you back for it. I mean, it’s not like we can start practicing our acceptance speeches, right? And paying you, well Stevie said—”
“You can’t buy heart,” Shae cut through his words. “And that’s what you’re asking for.”
And because that was it, exactly, Ethan stood quietly in front of her and agreed. “I need your help.”
His soft entreaty sealed the deal. He watched the fight roll off her shoulders, loosen the tension in her face. Shae Matthews was beautiful, with delicate, sunny features that reminded him of cat naps in the hammock and buttery sunsets that settled in a golden patina over the ocean.
“I’ll get a hotel room.”
“A hotel room?” he repeated. Okay, so his first reaction was one hundred percent male. Shae naked and atop the silky sheets at the Marmot, her dark blond hair fanned out around her head, her blue eyes, so open and expressive, calling to him. And of course it made him stupid.
“I can’t commute,” she pointed out. “Just getting here took me two hours.”
One beat. Of course she couldn’t. His brain recognized that fact but was unwilling to leave his imagination behind so easily. Certainly not when fantasy-Shae was beginning to move on that big mattress. She rolled to her side, propped her head in her hand, and that sunny smile of hers turned sultry. A second beat. His mind refused to budge. He tried to shake it off. Really he did. But then she opened her mouth and her voice was thick with need, “Come here, Ethan.”
His attraction to her was stunning. It was almost mortifying, but he managed to slam the door shut on the images that taunted him.
“Ah, sorry,” he mumbled. “What did you say?”
“I’ll need to book a hotel room,” she repeated. Her lips, full and glistening because she’d just swiped them with her tongue—a move that had filled his cock to straining—turned down at the corners.
Ethan took refuge in the office chair, tipping back and covering his lap with his folded hands. The move served two purposes—it gave him a few moments to collect his scattered wits, and it hid the evidence of his arousal—or so he thought.
“This has really gotten to you,” she said. “You don’t like exposing yourself.”
“I’m not exposed.” Not yet. But he almost choked on the words and concern softened her face.
“But you will be.” Her fingers strummed the screen of the tablet. “As soon as I get back to this.”
“Oh, yeah,” he agreed and he was clearly off beat. Shae tipped her head and her eyes became lasers.
She set the tablet on the desk, close enough Ethan could grab it if he wanted to.
“You’re going to need to trust me,” she began. “But you don’t know me and even if you did I think you’d still have trouble with that.”
He nodded. It wasn’t always that way. He’d trusted before. He’d trusted Tina, and she’d abused it. He’d trusted himself, but feared he’d messed up and would again.
“Maybe if we set some ground rules, you’d feel more comfortable.”
“What kind of rules?”
She shrugged. “It’s going to get personal. There’s no way around that. But it doesn’t have to become judgmental. If we treat your life like a story—which is really the only way I can do this—and you remember that my comments are strictly about plot and character—we should do okay.”
“We’d do better if you shared a little about yourself,” he countered. “You know, confess something you’ve never told another soul.”
“One naked person in the room is embarrassing, but two is a party?” she summarized for him and waited for his nod of agreement before she followed it up with an emphatic, “That’s not gonna happen.”
He smiled. “I didn’t think so.”
She rummaged through her purse and brought out her cell phone. “You have a recommendation?”
He stared at her. What the hell was wrong with him? He was smart, quick. He never lost the threads of a conversation and now he felt them flapping at his fingertips. He couldn’t grab them.
Sexual heat. It simmered just below the surface. It melted his brain cells. He tried to remember the last time he was so completely moved by a woman. High school. Back when Tina was more fantasy—dating but not dipping into the honey—than reality.
“Recommendation?” he tried to raise a cool eyebrow but in the face of her open appeal, he couldn’t pull it off. How had Shae managed to remain so fresh and genuine in a world of wind-up toys?
“For a hotel,” she prompted him.
Damn, that again. Ethan stepped on the brake with both feet and brought his imagination to a grinding halt before it could get the better of him.
“Sorry,” he said. “You’re right, I’m preoccupied. I’m all about this—” he indicated the tablet— “right now.” Liar, he called himself. “That’s the way I work.” Which was true. He tended to be a frenzy of energy with one focal point when he was on a project.
“Me, too.” She held up her phone. “So let’s get this out of the way so we can focus.”
“You can stay here,” he offered. “I have two guest rooms. They’re all primped up—my mom and sisters did it because they need a little more than toilet paper and Cheerios to get by.”
Shae laughed.
“We’ll get more work done that way, too. Maybe it won’t take weeks to plow through this.” He tapped the tablet and ignored the itch to draw it close.
“I have only an overnight case with me.”
“And your surfboard.” He’d noticed it, locked in the roof rack of her sporty SUV. A short board, probably a Handley, by the look of its sleek curves. A serious surfer girl. The thought made him smile. He wondered if Shae did everything with a do it right or don’t do it at all attitude. Which of course led his errant mind back to the side of his fantasy-Shae.
He closed the curtain on any theatrics his mind was conjuring, even though his body screamed action!
“I never leave home without it,” she assured him.
“We have a decent roll here.”
“You surf?”
“By the time I was walking. San Diego, born and raised.” He wondered what she’d packed in her case. Certainly a swimsuit. Taking her practical side into account, he decided she probably favored a tankini. Something in vivid colors with enough support she could be athletic with confidence. For a petite woman, she had generous curves. Just the thought of them—because he damn well wasn’t going to look at them again and slip into that sexual maw—made his voice husky, “We can have your things at the Marmot packed and brought up here.”
And Ethan would be good. Very good. He called up the discipline he’d relied on to gethim through risky missions in the Middle East. As of this moment, he was on guard.
“Someone I don’t know touching my things?”She didn’t say intimates or unders, but Ethan heard it in her tone. His pulse kicked up a notch, but that was as far as his reaction got. “We could send Eva for them,” he offered.
Yeah, he liked that. His voice was smooth, unaffected. The offer clean.
But Shae shook her head. “I saw several boutiques in town when I was driving through. I can pick up some things there.”
“Then you’ll stay here?”
She nodded. “I’m in a hurry, too,” she reminded him. “The sooner we’re done the better.” She picked up the tablet, but then looked at him over the top. “I’ll stay, but only as a matter of business.”
“Understood.” Although the way her eyes followed the breadth of his shoulders, dwelled on his chest, skimmed over his thighs, was like an intimate caress and told him she was at least aware of him. “Just out of curiosity, what’s waiting for you in Mill Valley?”
“A baby,” she said. “And there you have it. That one thing about me I haven’t told another soul.”
“A baby?” he repeated dumbly, because that was the last thing he’d expected to hear.
“Yes,” she confirmed. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself.”
“You’re having a baby?” If he continued to repeat it maybe it would sink in.
“That’s the plan.”
“You can’t hide something like that,” he pointed out, though his lips still felt numb. He let himself look at her this time. She had large breasts and maybe that was the result of the pregnancy. Her hips were nicely rounded. You’d think under the circumstance his body would stop reacting to hers. But no. He was of two minds. The rational hung a no trespassing sign over Shae. His dick remained stubbornly stiff.
“I can for now.”
He nodded. “Your secret is safe with me.”
AVAILABLE JULY 2013
Ethan thought about his options. He could hand over the Tablet peacefully and retain some of his male dignity. Or he could sit on it and stare Shae down, thus accomplishing nothing and reducing himself to the level of a two year old.
He held it out to her, but she had to use both hands to wrestle it away from him.
“It can’t be that bad,” she muttered.
She shook her head, but then that smiled bloomed on her lips—patient, knowing, sexy as hell. He felt his dick stir. He was definitely attracted to her. His skin had been humming ever since he’d stood on the other side of the gate, staring at her smiling profile.
“The writing is crap,” he told her. It was raw and real and it spilled onto the page in choppy lines and, sometimes, one word epitaphs. The man in those pages was a casualty. In his mind’s eye, Ethan saw his crumpled, blood-stained body and wanted to haul him over his shoulder and run him to the medics. Only the guy was him and he couldn’t save himself. He’d tried. “The events are real.” He struggled for his next words, “The emotions—” God, how he hated that word. It was worse than feelings and about on par with apocalypse. “—are a mess.”
She was already navigating through the first pages. She looked up and nailed him with her eyes.
“Who’s Tina?”
“My wife.”
“You said you weren’t married,” Shae pointed out. “And not divorced. So I’m assuming your wife passed away?” Her voice softened on her last words.
“Yes.”
She considered him for a moment. Her eyes were a startling shade of mid-summer sky. Ethan felt like he could free-float in her gaze, buoyed by the promise of carefree days and languid nights.
“Are you having trouble dealing with her loss?”
“No. I’ve worked through that.” That was his starting point when he took on this project. He’d thought it had to be Tina’s death holding him back and so he’d dove right into it. “It’s what happened before. I think.”
“How did she die?”
“Read and you’ll see.”
“What happened before?”
He pointed to the tablet. “It’s all in there.”
She laid the tablet in her lap and stared up at him. “Even if I read the whole thing, we’re going to have to talk about it.”
“You mean you’re thinking about not reading it?”
She sighed and Ethan watched conflict wage on her face.
“It’s six hundred and seventeen pages,” she pointed out.
Ethan flinched. He tried to stop it, but felt a blush roll up his neck and settle on his cheeks. What he’d written could comprise three or four screenplays. She probably thought he was an egomaniac.
“What else do you have to do with your time?” he tried for humor.
“I’m leaving town tomorrow.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Never.”
“What?”
“It’s a permanent move,” she explained, and Ethan heard defensiveness in her tone. “I want more than this town can offer me.”
Stevie had said something about Shae contemplating a move that would result in career suicide. He tried to remember his exact words.
“And it’s waiting for you in Mayberry?”
“Stevie talks too much.” She frowned and it put the cutest wrinkle between her eyebrows. “And it’s Mill valley. I grew up there.”
“They say you can never go home.”
“Who says that?” she challenged.
“The people who tried?”
“The people who have nothing waiting for them,” she corrected.
“And you do?”
“Yes.”
“And you can’t delay a few days?”
She held up the tablet. “It’s going to take longer than that.”
“A few weeks then?” He had the grace to look abashed. “I know it’s asking for a lot. And there’s really nothing I can do to pay you back for it. I mean, it’s not like we can start practicing our acceptance speeches, right? And paying you, well Stevie said—”
“You can’t buy heart,” Shae cut through his words. “And that’s what you’re asking for.”
And because that was it, exactly, Ethan stood quietly in front of her and agreed. “I need your help.”
His soft entreaty sealed the deal. He watched the fight roll off her shoulders, loosen the tension in her face. Shae Matthews was beautiful, with delicate, sunny features that reminded him of cat naps in the hammock and buttery sunsets that settled in a golden patina over the ocean.
“I’ll get a hotel room.”
“A hotel room?” he repeated. Okay, so his first reaction was one hundred percent male. Shae naked and atop the silky sheets at the Marmot, her dark blond hair fanned out around her head, her blue eyes, so open and expressive, calling to him. And of course it made him stupid.
“I can’t commute,” she pointed out. “Just getting here took me two hours.”
One beat. Of course she couldn’t. His brain recognized that fact but was unwilling to leave his imagination behind so easily. Certainly not when fantasy-Shae was beginning to move on that big mattress. She rolled to her side, propped her head in her hand, and that sunny smile of hers turned sultry. A second beat. His mind refused to budge. He tried to shake it off. Really he did. But then she opened her mouth and her voice was thick with need, “Come here, Ethan.”
His attraction to her was stunning. It was almost mortifying, but he managed to slam the door shut on the images that taunted him.
“Ah, sorry,” he mumbled. “What did you say?”
“I’ll need to book a hotel room,” she repeated. Her lips, full and glistening because she’d just swiped them with her tongue—a move that had filled his cock to straining—turned down at the corners.
Ethan took refuge in the office chair, tipping back and covering his lap with his folded hands. The move served two purposes—it gave him a few moments to collect his scattered wits, and it hid the evidence of his arousal—or so he thought.
“This has really gotten to you,” she said. “You don’t like exposing yourself.”
“I’m not exposed.” Not yet. But he almost choked on the words and concern softened her face.
“But you will be.” Her fingers strummed the screen of the tablet. “As soon as I get back to this.”
“Oh, yeah,” he agreed and he was clearly off beat. Shae tipped her head and her eyes became lasers.
She set the tablet on the desk, close enough Ethan could grab it if he wanted to.
“You’re going to need to trust me,” she began. “But you don’t know me and even if you did I think you’d still have trouble with that.”
He nodded. It wasn’t always that way. He’d trusted before. He’d trusted Tina, and she’d abused it. He’d trusted himself, but feared he’d messed up and would again.
“Maybe if we set some ground rules, you’d feel more comfortable.”
“What kind of rules?”
She shrugged. “It’s going to get personal. There’s no way around that. But it doesn’t have to become judgmental. If we treat your life like a story—which is really the only way I can do this—and you remember that my comments are strictly about plot and character—we should do okay.”
“We’d do better if you shared a little about yourself,” he countered. “You know, confess something you’ve never told another soul.”
“One naked person in the room is embarrassing, but two is a party?” she summarized for him and waited for his nod of agreement before she followed it up with an emphatic, “That’s not gonna happen.”
He smiled. “I didn’t think so.”
She rummaged through her purse and brought out her cell phone. “You have a recommendation?”
He stared at her. What the hell was wrong with him? He was smart, quick. He never lost the threads of a conversation and now he felt them flapping at his fingertips. He couldn’t grab them.
Sexual heat. It simmered just below the surface. It melted his brain cells. He tried to remember the last time he was so completely moved by a woman. High school. Back when Tina was more fantasy—dating but not dipping into the honey—than reality.
“Recommendation?” he tried to raise a cool eyebrow but in the face of her open appeal, he couldn’t pull it off. How had Shae managed to remain so fresh and genuine in a world of wind-up toys?
“For a hotel,” she prompted him.
Damn, that again. Ethan stepped on the brake with both feet and brought his imagination to a grinding halt before it could get the better of him.
“Sorry,” he said. “You’re right, I’m preoccupied. I’m all about this—” he indicated the tablet— “right now.” Liar, he called himself. “That’s the way I work.” Which was true. He tended to be a frenzy of energy with one focal point when he was on a project.
“Me, too.” She held up her phone. “So let’s get this out of the way so we can focus.”
“You can stay here,” he offered. “I have two guest rooms. They’re all primped up—my mom and sisters did it because they need a little more than toilet paper and Cheerios to get by.”
Shae laughed.
“We’ll get more work done that way, too. Maybe it won’t take weeks to plow through this.” He tapped the tablet and ignored the itch to draw it close.
“I have only an overnight case with me.”
“And your surfboard.” He’d noticed it, locked in the roof rack of her sporty SUV. A short board, probably a Handley, by the look of its sleek curves. A serious surfer girl. The thought made him smile. He wondered if Shae did everything with a do it right or don’t do it at all attitude. Which of course led his errant mind back to the side of his fantasy-Shae.
He closed the curtain on any theatrics his mind was conjuring, even though his body screamed action!
“I never leave home without it,” she assured him.
“We have a decent roll here.”
“You surf?”
“By the time I was walking. San Diego, born and raised.” He wondered what she’d packed in her case. Certainly a swimsuit. Taking her practical side into account, he decided she probably favored a tankini. Something in vivid colors with enough support she could be athletic with confidence. For a petite woman, she had generous curves. Just the thought of them—because he damn well wasn’t going to look at them again and slip into that sexual maw—made his voice husky, “We can have your things at the Marmot packed and brought up here.”
And Ethan would be good. Very good. He called up the discipline he’d relied on to gethim through risky missions in the Middle East. As of this moment, he was on guard.
“Someone I don’t know touching my things?”She didn’t say intimates or unders, but Ethan heard it in her tone. His pulse kicked up a notch, but that was as far as his reaction got. “We could send Eva for them,” he offered.
Yeah, he liked that. His voice was smooth, unaffected. The offer clean.
But Shae shook her head. “I saw several boutiques in town when I was driving through. I can pick up some things there.”
“Then you’ll stay here?”
She nodded. “I’m in a hurry, too,” she reminded him. “The sooner we’re done the better.” She picked up the tablet, but then looked at him over the top. “I’ll stay, but only as a matter of business.”
“Understood.” Although the way her eyes followed the breadth of his shoulders, dwelled on his chest, skimmed over his thighs, was like an intimate caress and told him she was at least aware of him. “Just out of curiosity, what’s waiting for you in Mill Valley?”
“A baby,” she said. “And there you have it. That one thing about me I haven’t told another soul.”
“A baby?” he repeated dumbly, because that was the last thing he’d expected to hear.
“Yes,” she confirmed. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself.”
“You’re having a baby?” If he continued to repeat it maybe it would sink in.
“That’s the plan.”
“You can’t hide something like that,” he pointed out, though his lips still felt numb. He let himself look at her this time. She had large breasts and maybe that was the result of the pregnancy. Her hips were nicely rounded. You’d think under the circumstance his body would stop reacting to hers. But no. He was of two minds. The rational hung a no trespassing sign over Shae. His dick remained stubbornly stiff.
“I can for now.”
He nodded. “Your secret is safe with me.”
AVAILABLE JULY 2013
June 24, 2013
Confessions: I Bought the Mix Master and, Officer, I Stand Corrected
I've wanted it for years. Coveted it from afar. Congratulated friends on their acquisitions while secretly wondering what they sacrificed in order to make the purchase. Was it that month's deposit into their child's college fund, a skipped credit card payment or two?
Truly, it cost as much as a car payment. Even with the $60 off coupon I used at Costco.
But isn't it beautiful?
And it works. I'm sure it does. It's been sitting on my counter for two months and the one time I tried to haul it closer to the counter's edge (that things weighs a ton!), and whip together a batch of chocolate chip cookies, I couldn't get past the lock that kept the beaters in the low-down position.
It's not that I don't want to use it--I have a whole list of sweets I want to pop in the oven--but I don't have the time to read the owner's manual (and no real talent at deciphering technical directions). I have been writing--nearly six hours every day--cooking up some tender moments and steamy sex scenes. All the good stuff that goes into today's romantic relationship.
Speaking of the good stuff, I got pulled over the other day, and not to sing my own praises, I managed to get through the whole experience without bawling. In fact, I was not only calm, I carried an air of indifference I'm sure worked in my favor. I was not speeding. Did not run a stop sign. Did not hit any parked cars. My car is new, rolled off the dealer's lot not 3 months ago, so I knew I didn't have a blown tail light. While he took his time doing whatever officers of the law do inside their cars before coming to your door (I wonder if it's a deliberate attempt to reduce our emotions to mush?), I thought about all the possibilities and crossed each one off my mental list. I was sure I'd done absolutely nothing wrong.
And then he materialized at my window. I'd already cranked it a few inches so we could hear each other. My natural inclination was to smile at him, but remembering my last experience on the side of the road (a rookie cop, his elderly mentor and an expired fix-it tag; the rookie yelling, me crying and the old guy apologizing) I kept a stiff upper lip and watched him out of the corner of my eye.
"Hi, Ma'am. Having a good day?"
I was. "Hello, Officer."
"Nice car. New?"
I bought it a year old, but I was still waiting on the registration to arrive in my name. In the meantime, the salesman at the dealership taped a temporary registration to the windshield.
"Driver's license? Proof of insurance?" I asked. No chitchat for me. Once bitten, twice shy and all that.
"Not for this." He lifted his hand and I saw a flash of powder blue. Fleecy. Familiar. "I think he's probably a little too young to drive."
He laughed softly. My stomach fell. Well, it did a little somersault first, responding to the husky timbre in his voice. Then it did a nose dive when I realized why that thing in his hand looked so familiar.
"She," I corrected, and explained, "My favorite color is blue."
I faced him then, with a full flush. I was incredibly rude and the guy didn't deserve it. "That fly out the window?"
He nodded. "About a mile back." He turned it over. "Doesn't look too bad."
In the back seat, my three year old called for her lovey. I wondered how she managed to stuff it through the small opening in the window. I wondered if he'd ticket me for littering.
"Roll down the window," he suggested.
I did. I thanked him. Smiled, even, and he paused long enough to confide, "My daughter threw her bottle out the window last week."
Charmed, definitely.
Truly, it cost as much as a car payment. Even with the $60 off coupon I used at Costco.
But isn't it beautiful?
And it works. I'm sure it does. It's been sitting on my counter for two months and the one time I tried to haul it closer to the counter's edge (that things weighs a ton!), and whip together a batch of chocolate chip cookies, I couldn't get past the lock that kept the beaters in the low-down position.
It's not that I don't want to use it--I have a whole list of sweets I want to pop in the oven--but I don't have the time to read the owner's manual (and no real talent at deciphering technical directions). I have been writing--nearly six hours every day--cooking up some tender moments and steamy sex scenes. All the good stuff that goes into today's romantic relationship.
Speaking of the good stuff, I got pulled over the other day, and not to sing my own praises, I managed to get through the whole experience without bawling. In fact, I was not only calm, I carried an air of indifference I'm sure worked in my favor. I was not speeding. Did not run a stop sign. Did not hit any parked cars. My car is new, rolled off the dealer's lot not 3 months ago, so I knew I didn't have a blown tail light. While he took his time doing whatever officers of the law do inside their cars before coming to your door (I wonder if it's a deliberate attempt to reduce our emotions to mush?), I thought about all the possibilities and crossed each one off my mental list. I was sure I'd done absolutely nothing wrong.
And then he materialized at my window. I'd already cranked it a few inches so we could hear each other. My natural inclination was to smile at him, but remembering my last experience on the side of the road (a rookie cop, his elderly mentor and an expired fix-it tag; the rookie yelling, me crying and the old guy apologizing) I kept a stiff upper lip and watched him out of the corner of my eye.
"Hi, Ma'am. Having a good day?"
I was. "Hello, Officer."
"Nice car. New?"
I bought it a year old, but I was still waiting on the registration to arrive in my name. In the meantime, the salesman at the dealership taped a temporary registration to the windshield.
"Driver's license? Proof of insurance?" I asked. No chitchat for me. Once bitten, twice shy and all that.
"Not for this." He lifted his hand and I saw a flash of powder blue. Fleecy. Familiar. "I think he's probably a little too young to drive."
He laughed softly. My stomach fell. Well, it did a little somersault first, responding to the husky timbre in his voice. Then it did a nose dive when I realized why that thing in his hand looked so familiar.
"She," I corrected, and explained, "My favorite color is blue."
I faced him then, with a full flush. I was incredibly rude and the guy didn't deserve it. "That fly out the window?"
He nodded. "About a mile back." He turned it over. "Doesn't look too bad."
In the back seat, my three year old called for her lovey. I wondered how she managed to stuff it through the small opening in the window. I wondered if he'd ticket me for littering.
"Roll down the window," he suggested.
I did. I thanked him. Smiled, even, and he paused long enough to confide, "My daughter threw her bottle out the window last week."
Charmed, definitely.
June 19, 2013
Sneak Peek! California Dreamy: Ethan
Introducing Shae Matthews, the newest heroine in the California Dreamy Series:
from Chapter One
“Honestly, Shae, you’ll be doing yourself a favor.”“And you, too,” she pointed out. Not that she had a problem with that—she’d do just about anything for Stevie. He’d believed in her when no one else had, except family. Back when she was living out of her parents’ cast-off mini-van and writing in the back of a surf shop in Santa Monica. “It’s just that I planned to leave.”“Connections,” he reminded her. “In this business it’s all about connections.”“Of which I have plenty,” she returned.“You can never have too many,” he argued, and he was right.Ethan Abrams was on the cusp of joining the elite in the big-time, power-house. He directed or produced a film every year and they were high quality, A-list productions. But he wasn’t a writer and Shae didn’t want to try and shape him into one. Especially not now-she had plans. Big-time mommy plans that ran by their own clock.“You know that I’m leaving,” she tried again, because Stevie had a way with denial Shae had never experienced before. He could spin a ‘no’ into an ‘absolutely’ faster than a marshmallow melted in July.“A bad decision,” he pointed out.“Nevertheless—” “You’re leaving. I know.”“Tomorrow,” she emphasized, and pushed back a strand of wheat-blond hair the wind had picked up and tossed. She listened to the silence as it built on the other end and counted down to his mini-explosion. Stevie tried to keep a steady passage, but he often failed.“What? Tomorrow? You can’t be serious, Shae. Hollywood is your life. It’s your blood. It’s your livelihood.” “I’m not leaving the business,” she reminded him. “Just the landscape.”“I thought you were talking vacation.”She’d told him differently, but Stevie’s form of denial was reflective. Anything he didn’t want to hear bounced off him. Of course that denial had done wonderful things for Shae—it landed her big contracts, including her first with DreamWorks when she was only twenty-three years old.“I sold my house.”“Buy another.”“I plan to. In Mill Valley.” She wanted home—suburbia, twenty minutes north of San Francisco. She didn’t worry she would lose her creative drive. That an environment of tall, leafy trees, smiling faces and green belts would suck her dry. She’d realized, as many veterans of the trade did sooner or later, that Los Angeles had a dying pulse. She didn’t have to live in The City of Angels in order to produce works that moved the human heart.She wouldn’t be able to surf as much, not from Mill Valley, and she’d have to travel further to do it, but she wanted family more than anything else. When one of her screenplays went into production, she would have to head south again, but lots of people in the business did that—flew in, settled in a rented house for six months, then when the movie wrapped, escaped to parts unknown.Stevie returned to his offensive stand. “Ethan is an amazing talent.”Shae already knew that. She followed Ethan Abrams’ work and had probablyseen every movie he’d directed—including a docu-drama that had her crying from mid-point to finish.“But he’s never written before.”“That’s not exactly true.”“Stevie,” the reprimand was light. They both hated it when directors crossed out lines and wrote in “possibles.” It was part of the process, of course, and often times Shae had come around to believing the director had a point. Still, applying patches to someone else’s work was not writing.“You’d be proud to be a part of this project. It has depth.”Shae didn’t doubt it. Ethan was known for projects that had a full arc of emotions. He didn’t limit himself to blockbusters, either, but loaned his talent to indie films and start-ups that he found worthy.Which was part of Shae’s dilemma. She’d never been asked to give back before. And shouldn’t she be doing exactly that? Facing her thirtieth birthday, she was ancient by industry standards but had accomplished so much more than many people did in comparable careers. It hadn’t come easy, but she’d arrived at an astounding level of success through hard work and her share of luck. She felt her resolve begin its landslide.“What’s the project?”“I don’t know,” Stevie admitted.“But you said it has depth.”“It does. Everything Ethan does has depth.”“Storyline?”“He isn’t saying. First time jitters and all that.” Shae rolled her eyes. “You’re his agent.” Who else, if not your agent, to bounce ideas off of? “Fine. Have him e-mail me what he’s got. I’ll take a look at it.”“Not gonna happen,” Stevie insisted. “Listen, if I didn’t know this was going to be the movie of the year and that you weren’t the absolute right person to help, I wouldn’t be bothering you.”“You’re not bothering me, Stevie.”“Well, I am. A little.”“Okay. A little,” she conceded. “What does he want?”“For you to meet with him. He’ll come to you.”
from Chapter One
“Honestly, Shae, you’ll be doing yourself a favor.”“And you, too,” she pointed out. Not that she had a problem with that—she’d do just about anything for Stevie. He’d believed in her when no one else had, except family. Back when she was living out of her parents’ cast-off mini-van and writing in the back of a surf shop in Santa Monica. “It’s just that I planned to leave.”“Connections,” he reminded her. “In this business it’s all about connections.”“Of which I have plenty,” she returned.“You can never have too many,” he argued, and he was right.Ethan Abrams was on the cusp of joining the elite in the big-time, power-house. He directed or produced a film every year and they were high quality, A-list productions. But he wasn’t a writer and Shae didn’t want to try and shape him into one. Especially not now-she had plans. Big-time mommy plans that ran by their own clock.“You know that I’m leaving,” she tried again, because Stevie had a way with denial Shae had never experienced before. He could spin a ‘no’ into an ‘absolutely’ faster than a marshmallow melted in July.“A bad decision,” he pointed out.“Nevertheless—” “You’re leaving. I know.”“Tomorrow,” she emphasized, and pushed back a strand of wheat-blond hair the wind had picked up and tossed. She listened to the silence as it built on the other end and counted down to his mini-explosion. Stevie tried to keep a steady passage, but he often failed.“What? Tomorrow? You can’t be serious, Shae. Hollywood is your life. It’s your blood. It’s your livelihood.” “I’m not leaving the business,” she reminded him. “Just the landscape.”“I thought you were talking vacation.”She’d told him differently, but Stevie’s form of denial was reflective. Anything he didn’t want to hear bounced off him. Of course that denial had done wonderful things for Shae—it landed her big contracts, including her first with DreamWorks when she was only twenty-three years old.“I sold my house.”“Buy another.”“I plan to. In Mill Valley.” She wanted home—suburbia, twenty minutes north of San Francisco. She didn’t worry she would lose her creative drive. That an environment of tall, leafy trees, smiling faces and green belts would suck her dry. She’d realized, as many veterans of the trade did sooner or later, that Los Angeles had a dying pulse. She didn’t have to live in The City of Angels in order to produce works that moved the human heart.She wouldn’t be able to surf as much, not from Mill Valley, and she’d have to travel further to do it, but she wanted family more than anything else. When one of her screenplays went into production, she would have to head south again, but lots of people in the business did that—flew in, settled in a rented house for six months, then when the movie wrapped, escaped to parts unknown.Stevie returned to his offensive stand. “Ethan is an amazing talent.”Shae already knew that. She followed Ethan Abrams’ work and had probablyseen every movie he’d directed—including a docu-drama that had her crying from mid-point to finish.“But he’s never written before.”“That’s not exactly true.”“Stevie,” the reprimand was light. They both hated it when directors crossed out lines and wrote in “possibles.” It was part of the process, of course, and often times Shae had come around to believing the director had a point. Still, applying patches to someone else’s work was not writing.“You’d be proud to be a part of this project. It has depth.”Shae didn’t doubt it. Ethan was known for projects that had a full arc of emotions. He didn’t limit himself to blockbusters, either, but loaned his talent to indie films and start-ups that he found worthy.Which was part of Shae’s dilemma. She’d never been asked to give back before. And shouldn’t she be doing exactly that? Facing her thirtieth birthday, she was ancient by industry standards but had accomplished so much more than many people did in comparable careers. It hadn’t come easy, but she’d arrived at an astounding level of success through hard work and her share of luck. She felt her resolve begin its landslide.“What’s the project?”“I don’t know,” Stevie admitted.“But you said it has depth.”“It does. Everything Ethan does has depth.”“Storyline?”“He isn’t saying. First time jitters and all that.” Shae rolled her eyes. “You’re his agent.” Who else, if not your agent, to bounce ideas off of? “Fine. Have him e-mail me what he’s got. I’ll take a look at it.”“Not gonna happen,” Stevie insisted. “Listen, if I didn’t know this was going to be the movie of the year and that you weren’t the absolute right person to help, I wouldn’t be bothering you.”“You’re not bothering me, Stevie.”“Well, I am. A little.”“Okay. A little,” she conceded. “What does he want?”“For you to meet with him. He’ll come to you.”
June 16, 2013
Confessions: I Ate the Cupcake, Let Out the Cat and Spent a Whole Lot of Time Dreaming of a Man I Can't Have
So, I'm on day three of eating better and moving more. I don't have any illusions of making the next Olympic team or even competing at the Master's level in an upcoming "Sprint Triathlon." I did register, though, and totally plan on participating come September 7th. So I do this jog for two minutes walk for two minutes cardio pull for 45 minutes every other day and yesterday began doing push-ups, with the help of my 10 year old who keeps telling me I have "stink butt"--so I don't have the best form. Next, I'll add free weights and I might even get on my bike--a 17 year old relic from the days when I did compete.
I like exercise. The burn, the clear head, and especially the way my body hums for a few hours afterward. Finding the time is the challenge, but I have the summer off and have made this a priority.
I am under a strict rule of portion control and right now this seems like a kind of capital punishment. I LOVE food. I love cooking and baking and eating. I love breathing in the warm, yeasty scent of bread and the explosion of something sweet on my tongue. Both are no-nos right now.
So my first confession today is that I ate the cupcake that was left completely defenseless on the second shelf of the refrigerator. Velvety white cake covered in fudge icing. It was glorious. It was climatic, even, having been without for so long (I know, just three days, but denial is an extremely harsh task master). I did it under the cover of night, when the house was quiet and I had just finished writing a completely erotic love scene between Ethan and Shae (book 2). Probably the hottest I've ever written and certainly the most daring (am I brave enough not to apply some editing?). I did it when those who had plans of their own for the scrumptious delicacy were sleeping; when witnesses to my wicked, impulsive decision were not around to later speak of it. And this morning, when one voice rose above all others, "Where is my cupcake?!?" I became conveniently deaf and mute. Three hours later I continue to tread water as the accused, somewhere between the guilty and the innocent.
And now the cat. He was howling in the garage last night. He wouldn't quit. And I was writing (by the way, when you hear Ethan howling and Shae purring, you'll know our cat entered the story, the way only a cat can sinuously traipse through even the most delicate of scenery). Bringing him into the kitchen wasn't good enough. He paced in front of the door, pawed at the seam where a cool draft wafted in, stretched himself as though he were reaching for the door knob and let out plaintive calls for freedom. How could I deny him? I let the cat out. Yes, we worry about coyotes in our neck of the woods. But the dogs in the neighborhood always warn us with frenzied barking. And our back yard is completely fenced. I kept the security lights blazing. So to those of you who are disappointed in my decision: I watched him romping in the tall grass along the fence line I have yet to attack with the weed-whacker and he was in feline heaven. I kept the curtains opened and looked up from time to time, to see him batting moths and digging for lizards. I didn't forget about him last night. He wouldn't come when I called and dashed away when I approached. This morning, he was curled up on the patio lounger, having tommed around all night. I have no regrets and neither does he.
My final confession of the day: I cannot get him out of my head, and he doesn't even exist.
Writing romance novels is like slipping through a portal into a world of suspended belief--sort of. My characters have plenty of realistic quirks, issues, struggles--they are as human as you can find within the pages of a novel, and I prefer it this way, because I absolutely believe that there are men and women in this world who love passionately and completely. Yes, we all have troubles. Some of them we have to grapple with ourselves; others we certainly benefit and bond from the help of a special man or woman in our lives.
This man who dominates my unguarded moments is not one of those. And yet he takes an active part in my fantasy world, from pleasing me with physical attention to standing by my side when the world becomes too much to bear.
A few days ago, I decided to put a stop to this and began booting him out of my head whenever he showed up. I tried replacing him with other dreamy men. But damn, he's persistent.
Last night he entered my sleeping dreams (a very unusual occurrence--I have such an active daydreaming life that I don't often dream when I'm sleeping), made love to me with tenderness, and stood beside me as my child was wheeled into surgery (a looming reality that is causing me some worry).
I'm content now to let my fantasy life take its natural course--it's going to have its way with me no matter what. And soon it will replace him with another man worthy of a few hot and steamy moments of which good dreams are made.
I like exercise. The burn, the clear head, and especially the way my body hums for a few hours afterward. Finding the time is the challenge, but I have the summer off and have made this a priority.
I am under a strict rule of portion control and right now this seems like a kind of capital punishment. I LOVE food. I love cooking and baking and eating. I love breathing in the warm, yeasty scent of bread and the explosion of something sweet on my tongue. Both are no-nos right now.
So my first confession today is that I ate the cupcake that was left completely defenseless on the second shelf of the refrigerator. Velvety white cake covered in fudge icing. It was glorious. It was climatic, even, having been without for so long (I know, just three days, but denial is an extremely harsh task master). I did it under the cover of night, when the house was quiet and I had just finished writing a completely erotic love scene between Ethan and Shae (book 2). Probably the hottest I've ever written and certainly the most daring (am I brave enough not to apply some editing?). I did it when those who had plans of their own for the scrumptious delicacy were sleeping; when witnesses to my wicked, impulsive decision were not around to later speak of it. And this morning, when one voice rose above all others, "Where is my cupcake?!?" I became conveniently deaf and mute. Three hours later I continue to tread water as the accused, somewhere between the guilty and the innocent.
And now the cat. He was howling in the garage last night. He wouldn't quit. And I was writing (by the way, when you hear Ethan howling and Shae purring, you'll know our cat entered the story, the way only a cat can sinuously traipse through even the most delicate of scenery). Bringing him into the kitchen wasn't good enough. He paced in front of the door, pawed at the seam where a cool draft wafted in, stretched himself as though he were reaching for the door knob and let out plaintive calls for freedom. How could I deny him? I let the cat out. Yes, we worry about coyotes in our neck of the woods. But the dogs in the neighborhood always warn us with frenzied barking. And our back yard is completely fenced. I kept the security lights blazing. So to those of you who are disappointed in my decision: I watched him romping in the tall grass along the fence line I have yet to attack with the weed-whacker and he was in feline heaven. I kept the curtains opened and looked up from time to time, to see him batting moths and digging for lizards. I didn't forget about him last night. He wouldn't come when I called and dashed away when I approached. This morning, he was curled up on the patio lounger, having tommed around all night. I have no regrets and neither does he.
My final confession of the day: I cannot get him out of my head, and he doesn't even exist.
Writing romance novels is like slipping through a portal into a world of suspended belief--sort of. My characters have plenty of realistic quirks, issues, struggles--they are as human as you can find within the pages of a novel, and I prefer it this way, because I absolutely believe that there are men and women in this world who love passionately and completely. Yes, we all have troubles. Some of them we have to grapple with ourselves; others we certainly benefit and bond from the help of a special man or woman in our lives.
This man who dominates my unguarded moments is not one of those. And yet he takes an active part in my fantasy world, from pleasing me with physical attention to standing by my side when the world becomes too much to bear.
A few days ago, I decided to put a stop to this and began booting him out of my head whenever he showed up. I tried replacing him with other dreamy men. But damn, he's persistent.
Last night he entered my sleeping dreams (a very unusual occurrence--I have such an active daydreaming life that I don't often dream when I'm sleeping), made love to me with tenderness, and stood beside me as my child was wheeled into surgery (a looming reality that is causing me some worry).
I'm content now to let my fantasy life take its natural course--it's going to have its way with me no matter what. And soon it will replace him with another man worthy of a few hot and steamy moments of which good dreams are made.
June 13, 2013
Confessions: The Truth about Jake
JAKE has earned a lot of great reviews and I have been asked by more than a few readers if I based my hero in the novel on a real guy. I believe that writers, when they are successful, write from a place of experience. This doesn't mean that we recreate actual events (though we can and sometimes do) but that we tap into emotional memory when we write.
That said, I believe JAKE is what I wish would have happened in my life. I did date a man who looks like Jake, feels like Jake, smells like Jake, and, hot damn, even kissed like Jake. Our date was singular. We met at work (he's a police officer who came to give my students a talk and demonstration as part of a career awareness program I was running) and a week later we went for a walk on the beach and out to dinner.
What attracted me to him (other than that fine body) was the way he interacted with my students. In particular, one of my students who had Down's Syndrome and wouldn't give up the bullet proof vest "Jake" had let him try on. He was patient and kind and had a charming sense of humor.
He was a Marine, we did have running in common, but the rest is pure fantasy--and though it's been years and I hadn't thought of him but briefly during that time, the moment I sat down to write the story, he appeared on the page. He's still knocking around inside my head, plays a leading role in my fantasies (and I really need to get out of the house, go on a date, and get new fodder for my imagination to play with!).
I know you want the ending--all of us readers do. So I'll tell you this, our date quickly went down hill. The walk on the beach was beautiful. I learned a few more things about him that earned my respect (he was helping care for his nephews because his sister was a drug addict, he was continuing in the reserves, he had to earn his way onto the police force by working first for a "lesser" agency--all character building stuff, right?). And then we sat down to dinner in a nice, beachy restaurant and he proceeded to tell me all about the women in his life. No kidding. The women who hit on him on an almost daily basis--including the secretary at my work. I don't know what you do with something like that. I must have looked shocked, because then he pointed out that he chose me.
"Ah, great, maybe." So the date was over for me at that point. He kept talking and it became clear that I was just a body. It made me so mad. I have that blond hair blue-eyed thing going and I was used to guys hitting on me. I've had several conversations with men I didn't even know, where it was obvious that inside their head, they were nailing me. But I am SO much more than that. (We all are, ladies!)
So I was boiling. And the timing was wrong, because I'd thought it would be different--I respected the guy and I'd hoped...but what I had was that smack of anger working inside me--haven't felt that before or since.
We got back to my apartment and he asked me if I had a VCR. He had something he wanted to show me. (I should mention here that I was still a little naive when it came to men and relationships. "Jake" was only the third man I'd been with and the two before him had been friends first...) So we went up and he popped in what looked like a movie -- turned out it was a clip of him in full Marine uniform doing that "A few great men" thing.
I remember thinking he had so much going for him, why would he use a ploy to get a woman into bed?
I started thinking if one night stands are so great, then why not?
If he kept his mouth shut, he was sexy as sin, and I may as well get a few orgasms out of an otherwise shitty night. Yep, I did it. But a few hours of great sex wasn't meant to be. I swear the whole encounter lasted five minutes. A big part of that was my fault--I am not made for one night stands, and I'm a quickie kind of girl only after I've known the man and he knows me and we can get to our "soak zones" with dart-like accuracy.
So the beauty of creating a hero on page is that we can choose his attributes, those that make our hearts sing, and make adjustments along the way. In this case, fantasy is much better than reality. I'm so glad a girl can dream. . .
That said, I believe JAKE is what I wish would have happened in my life. I did date a man who looks like Jake, feels like Jake, smells like Jake, and, hot damn, even kissed like Jake. Our date was singular. We met at work (he's a police officer who came to give my students a talk and demonstration as part of a career awareness program I was running) and a week later we went for a walk on the beach and out to dinner.
What attracted me to him (other than that fine body) was the way he interacted with my students. In particular, one of my students who had Down's Syndrome and wouldn't give up the bullet proof vest "Jake" had let him try on. He was patient and kind and had a charming sense of humor.
He was a Marine, we did have running in common, but the rest is pure fantasy--and though it's been years and I hadn't thought of him but briefly during that time, the moment I sat down to write the story, he appeared on the page. He's still knocking around inside my head, plays a leading role in my fantasies (and I really need to get out of the house, go on a date, and get new fodder for my imagination to play with!).
I know you want the ending--all of us readers do. So I'll tell you this, our date quickly went down hill. The walk on the beach was beautiful. I learned a few more things about him that earned my respect (he was helping care for his nephews because his sister was a drug addict, he was continuing in the reserves, he had to earn his way onto the police force by working first for a "lesser" agency--all character building stuff, right?). And then we sat down to dinner in a nice, beachy restaurant and he proceeded to tell me all about the women in his life. No kidding. The women who hit on him on an almost daily basis--including the secretary at my work. I don't know what you do with something like that. I must have looked shocked, because then he pointed out that he chose me.
"Ah, great, maybe." So the date was over for me at that point. He kept talking and it became clear that I was just a body. It made me so mad. I have that blond hair blue-eyed thing going and I was used to guys hitting on me. I've had several conversations with men I didn't even know, where it was obvious that inside their head, they were nailing me. But I am SO much more than that. (We all are, ladies!)
So I was boiling. And the timing was wrong, because I'd thought it would be different--I respected the guy and I'd hoped...but what I had was that smack of anger working inside me--haven't felt that before or since.
We got back to my apartment and he asked me if I had a VCR. He had something he wanted to show me. (I should mention here that I was still a little naive when it came to men and relationships. "Jake" was only the third man I'd been with and the two before him had been friends first...) So we went up and he popped in what looked like a movie -- turned out it was a clip of him in full Marine uniform doing that "A few great men" thing.
I remember thinking he had so much going for him, why would he use a ploy to get a woman into bed?
I started thinking if one night stands are so great, then why not?
If he kept his mouth shut, he was sexy as sin, and I may as well get a few orgasms out of an otherwise shitty night. Yep, I did it. But a few hours of great sex wasn't meant to be. I swear the whole encounter lasted five minutes. A big part of that was my fault--I am not made for one night stands, and I'm a quickie kind of girl only after I've known the man and he knows me and we can get to our "soak zones" with dart-like accuracy.
So the beauty of creating a hero on page is that we can choose his attributes, those that make our hearts sing, and make adjustments along the way. In this case, fantasy is much better than reality. I'm so glad a girl can dream. . .
June 9, 2013
The Erotic Bedroom
I write romance novels and I'm pretty good at it (thank you readers for your comments and suggestions, all of which I take seriously). I am not, however, a clinical psychologist, relationship coach, or a spiritual leader. I know what the Kama Sutra is only because I bought the DVD when I was looking for alternative exercise (following foot surgery) but I can provide the geographical locations for my sweet spots (yes, everyone--men and women--has more than one!)--I can even follow that electric ribbon directly back to my heart and explain how a man's physical touch creates a woman's emotional response (that's an article all on its own).
With that said, I am asked often for tips on how to spice things up in the bedroom. So I decided to write a short weekly column that focuses on one technique worth trying (as with any vigorous exercise, get your doctor's permission before attempting ;).
Anticipation. We've heard a lot about how men are visual learners, sowers and reapers. He fantasizes about his woman, what he'll do to her, what he needs her to do for him. Most rewards come to him through sight. Ladies, have you ever noticed that a man rarely closes his eyes during sex, until caught up in its finish? Touch is not enough (nor is smell, sound, taste). But to touch and see its effect on you, that is the bone (pun very much intended). To feel your hands, lips, tongue on his body is heavenly, but to watch you while you're doing it is a bliss that tangles his wiring and reduces thought to the primal level.
And women love to fantasize as much as men do. We might even be a little more creative with it, a little more daring, because it takes place in a world in which we feel safe. (How to get her to open up about this is a future topic, as are words of encouragement to ease women into the release of these secrets).
Do not slam your lover with intimate portraits of what awaits him/her. Sex-texts are sophomoric and might create a momentary ping on the echo cardiogram, but more often kills the thrill of fantasy.
The suggestion is this: write your lover a note--something he can hold in his hand, that she can pull out later as a reminder. This is personal, so make sure you write it (no e-mailing, texting, etc.) Slip it in his pocket, his wallet, her purse. Make it short and steamy. Be explicit. Confidant. Create a tone that promises: It's gonna happen, baby. And then put it out there. Men like it pared down--no fluff. And they like it both ways equally--"Friday, 10 pm--suck my man into the red zone" is as exciting to them as "I'm going to sit on your face." Women prefer a sentiment wrapped up in the plan, "Friday night deep diving. I love your musk." It's also a good way to introduce something new into your relationship, "My set of Ben Wa balls arrived."
Guaranteed--You're going to take center stage in your lover's 'reel' world during the days that follow.
We will come back to anticipation often, because there are SO many ways to create it!
Feel free to leave topic ideas in the comments below.
With that said, I am asked often for tips on how to spice things up in the bedroom. So I decided to write a short weekly column that focuses on one technique worth trying (as with any vigorous exercise, get your doctor's permission before attempting ;).
Anticipation. We've heard a lot about how men are visual learners, sowers and reapers. He fantasizes about his woman, what he'll do to her, what he needs her to do for him. Most rewards come to him through sight. Ladies, have you ever noticed that a man rarely closes his eyes during sex, until caught up in its finish? Touch is not enough (nor is smell, sound, taste). But to touch and see its effect on you, that is the bone (pun very much intended). To feel your hands, lips, tongue on his body is heavenly, but to watch you while you're doing it is a bliss that tangles his wiring and reduces thought to the primal level.
And women love to fantasize as much as men do. We might even be a little more creative with it, a little more daring, because it takes place in a world in which we feel safe. (How to get her to open up about this is a future topic, as are words of encouragement to ease women into the release of these secrets).
Do not slam your lover with intimate portraits of what awaits him/her. Sex-texts are sophomoric and might create a momentary ping on the echo cardiogram, but more often kills the thrill of fantasy.
The suggestion is this: write your lover a note--something he can hold in his hand, that she can pull out later as a reminder. This is personal, so make sure you write it (no e-mailing, texting, etc.) Slip it in his pocket, his wallet, her purse. Make it short and steamy. Be explicit. Confidant. Create a tone that promises: It's gonna happen, baby. And then put it out there. Men like it pared down--no fluff. And they like it both ways equally--"Friday, 10 pm--suck my man into the red zone" is as exciting to them as "I'm going to sit on your face." Women prefer a sentiment wrapped up in the plan, "Friday night deep diving. I love your musk." It's also a good way to introduce something new into your relationship, "My set of Ben Wa balls arrived."
Guaranteed--You're going to take center stage in your lover's 'reel' world during the days that follow.
We will come back to anticipation often, because there are SO many ways to create it!
Feel free to leave topic ideas in the comments below.
