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#FreeDailyRead - When I See Your Face, Part 8

When I See Your Face, Part 8 Chapter 3

After some minutes of walking in tense silence, Cathy dared to speak.

“Mr. Newland, what exactly will we do? And where?”

“Oh please, don’t call me that. It makes me feel like some snobby real estate agent or your senior by decades. Can we stick to Michael?”

She certainly didn’t feel like getting so familiar with this stranger so soon, as if it meant some commitment. On the other hand, addressing her husband’s look-alike by his surname wasn’t right, and they were going to spend hours working alongside each other.

“Okay. I’m Cathy.”

He turned and held out his hand. “Great! Let’s do this right. Hi Cathy, I’m Michael. Pleased to meet you.”

Shaking the hand she meekly laid in his while automatically echoing his smile, he continued, “See, this is how our first meeting should have gone.”

When there was no reply from her, he dropped her hand and strode onwards.

“It’s better if I explain the work when you see it. Learning by doing, you know? To cut the long story short, Mr. Thackeray’s garden needs a make-over and today’s a good day to start. With your help, I think, the preliminary work will be done within a day instead of two.”

He had a way of sounding enamored with his work that reminded her all too much of her husband. She recalled that he was the village gardener and wondered what the heck he wanted her to help with, while at the same time being quite relieved that he wasn’t leading her to his home. What surprises would this day spring at her next?

* * *

As if the question she had asked herself had been heard by life itself or by some higher power, the day did its best to spring all too many surprises at her. Time flew by and the most surprising thing of them all was that she felt happy. Here she was in a stranger’s backyard in a village she had spent only a few days in, with a man she had known for only several minutes, shoveling earth, uprooting weeds, sweeping fallen leaves—and actually enjoying it.

As soon as they had reached their destination, Michael had transformed. From being energetic, he had turned outright dedicated, full of authority and professionalism mixed in with a good amount of joy at what he was doing. Clearly, like Mark, he loved his job and saw it as his fulfilment, but on a slightly different level that seemed more passionate than consumed, more like he were the driving force and not the man taking the ride offered to him. It was contagious, like his smile, which pierced her like the thorny weeds that managed to prick through the garden gloves, only in a sweeter way and much deeper than she would admit it to herself.

Before long, she was sweating, had rolled her sleeves up her arms and knew her shoulder length, wavy, brownish-blonde hair must be decorating her head in unruly, wet tendrils and spikes. Her sneakers were caked in mud, her jeans liberally sprinkled with grass, clumps of dirt and the odd tiny pebble and her mouth was dry with exhaustion.

And yet, she felt good. She loved to be so active, something she had never been before or during her time with Mark. It was liberating to be working hard next to someone who expected her to do just that and did even more, someone who led the way and yet made her feel his equal by constantly filling her in on what they did and why they did it.

While turning over the soil and weeding what was to become rows and rows of orderly flower beds, he kept up a constant, never nagging stream of conversation which was purely centered on their efforts and his plans for the land they were working on. Mark had never talked about his work with her, rather talked at her about his successes. True, she had no real knowledge about or interest in his land sales and building contracts and stock market trading and investments. Neither did she have the faintest experience with gardening, and yet he held her interest for hours. She absorbed every word of his and felt incredibly useful, although she realized with chagrin that she was probably only managing a tenth of what he did.

He never once asked her anything and she was most content keeping silent and listening to him. And watching him.

For, if truth be told, the biggest reason for her not making much progress was probably not her lack of experience but the effort she put into watching him. Every gesture, every flicker of expression across his handsome face was registered and instantly compared to Mark’s behavior.

And here lay many surprises too. The longer she worked alongside him and observed him, the more tiny differences did she discover between the two men who had at first looked like Siamese twins to her.

There was the physique itself. Where Mark had been thin in a sleek, angular, boyish way, Michael was slim and fit with subtle, fine-toned muscles that spoke of an active lifestyle. More often than was probably proper, she felt her eyes roam his body with the muscles rippling under the sweat-stained white singlet after he had unceremoniously slipped out of his polo shirt. It was plastered to his body and made him look much too attractive.

Sometimes, their arms would brush or their legs touch or his breath ruffle her hair when he came closer to instruct her. Instinctively, she flinched away from those moments of physical closeness. She wasn’t sure whether it was fear, shyness, memories or a budding attraction that made her do so. He must have noticed, because there was a slight hitch in his breathing every time they touched and his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly whenever she flinched.

His face wasn’t a copy of her husband’s either. There were fine lines around his eyes, on his forehead and around his mouth that deepened whenever he smiled, which he did unconsciously most of the time. This also gave him more depth, a more masculine and mature look than Mark. He was probably the more emotional of the two, not only the more active and open one.

Then there was his voice that fit perfectly to his stature and facial expressions, similar to Mark’s yet somehow warmer and livelier. She suspected that this was also true for his character. And asked herself why on earth she would care about his character. For a minute or two, she would work diligently without so much as sparing him a glance, but before long that morbid interest—morbid because with her comparisons, she would inevitably conjure up recollections of Mark and their unhappy life—would kick back in and she would stare at him again.

After what felt like days and must have been several hours, Michael straightened up, tossed the spade to the side and stretched luxuriously like a wild cat after a nap. She felt her mouth go drier when his muscles seemed to spring at her while his wet singlet clung to his body. When he stretched his arms up, the singlet rid up his body to reveal an inch of skin around his stomach and hips, as sun-kissed as the rest of his upper body. Did that mean that he usually worked topless? The notion sent her heart beat on overdrive and made her shake herself all over when she caught herself all but drooling over this stranger that surely only attracted her because of his likeness to her husband.

It took her a second to realize that he was looking at her, that slightly crooked grin on his face that made her legs feel like jelly and did funny things to her breathing.

“Wow, we’ve worked real hard, haven’t we? I’m sure it’s past lunchtime. Give me a second while I charm Mr. Thackeray into rustling us something up to eat and drink. Be right back.”

He was already half turning toward the house whose inhabitant hadn’t once showed up to check in on their work. Pointing behind her, he added, “There’s a tap at the back of the house. I’m afraid that’ll have to do for now to clean yourself up and refresh after all the hard work.”

He was gone in a manner of seconds, leaving her with a myriad of thoughts running through her head.

(To be continued tomorrow!)

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#FreeDailyRead - When I See Your Face, Part 7

When I See Your Face, Part 7 While her instinct and her pounding heart told her to flee, a strange fascination kept her rooted to her spot, eyes never leaving the stranger that felt anything but strange.

Today, he was dressed in loose-fitting camouflage summer trousers, belted rather low on his lean hips, and a light yellow polo shirt. It made him look taller and his hair appear blacker. His hair: She now saw that unlike her husband, this Michael didn’t care for gel or a comb. His hair was a little longer than Mark’s and fell loosely over his forehead, so that once in a few minutes he gave a small toss of his head to prevent it from falling into his eyes while he spoke animatedly to the cashier lady.

He constantly used his hands while talking, emphasizing and illustrating in a way that her husband with his precise words and his linear mind had never needed. When Bertha must have said something funny, his face broke out into a grin full of brilliant white teeth that tugged at her heart painfully. Unlike the rest of his manner, it mirrored Mark to perfection.

A customer had stepped up to have his items scanned, which her husband’s twin—she should stop calling him that—saw as a cue to walk into the shop and run his errands. He went exactly her way, head bent low and hands in his pockets, unaware of her standing there as if frozen in place, a deer in the headlights of a car speeding toward it.

Before she knew it, the man looked up and stopped dead in his tracks, only a couple of paces away from where she stood. He didn’t look angry so much as confused and maybe guilty, though she had no idea why he should feel guilt, registering subconsciously that it was a look she had never seen on her husband’s face and that it made his forehead crease as well as tiny wrinkles appear around his eyes.

He didn’t say anything, so she summoned what little courage she had and decided to go through with her apology and make a run for it.

“I…I want to apologize for my behavior, Mr…Newland, is it?”

An almost imperceptible nod. He opened his mouth to speak and she cut him short by adding, “I realize it must have come as a shock to you. Believe me, it was a shock for me too. I would never have reacted like this, otherwise. I am sorry to have called you names and shouted at you.”

Her voice was shaking and she was studiously avoiding to meet his eye, but inwardly she was proud for sounding so polite and for actually having said sorry when inside her head, scene after scene of her difficult life with Mark played like a movie with the sound switched off.

And now it would be better to leave because being this close to him made it difficult for her to breathe, bringing all the anxiety back. His next words stopped her.

“Well, let’s say that you nearly knocked me off my feet with that emotional outburst. Anyway, I’m not somebody to hold grudges. At least I try not to because I learned the hard way that it’s plain useless. So…Thanks for the apology. It’s forgiven, though maybe not forgotten.”

When she simply gawked at him as though she couldn’t believe to be let off so easily, he scrunched up his face and went on, “Early this morning, Aunt Grindle gave me a call and explained the whole thing to me. After that, I felt like I had to say sorry for shocking you so much. It must have been hard.”

There was something in his tone that made him sound utterly unlike Mark, although their voices were strikingly similar.

Cathy was so confused by this statement that she made the mistake to look up into his face. She was confronted by the full power of his gaze on her.

God, his eye color was the exact copy of her husband’s, a cool, brilliant, light blue that had some grey to it and made it seem as though he could look right into her soul. It registered dimly with her that, like his voice, his face was full of honest kindness, openness and feeling. It was the contrast to what she had always witnessed when being around Mark that made it easier for her to speak.

“What has Aunt Grindle told you?” she asked, dread building inside her of what this stranger might already know about her private life.

Instead of being offended by her directness, he answered, “She told me that your husband looked exactly like me and that you weren’t exactly on good terms with him. So your screaming at me makes perfect sense.”

There was a short grin on his face that was as crooked at one corner of his mouth as Mark’s. She wasn’t sure whether she could believe what he had said. Then again, her shouts had been explicit enough to imagine what was going on and spin a bigger tale out of it. She had called him "bastard", hadn’t she? Cringing inwardly, she felt the need to apologize again, although she couldn’t exactly tell why.

“No seriously. I’m glad you understand, but I shouldn’t have kept it up when you apparently reacted with such confusion. If there’s anything I could do to make it up to you…”

An inexplicable look crossed his handsome face, as though he were hatching some sudden plan.

“Actually, there is. Are you busy today?”

His voice and manner, as compelling as Mark’s when he was full of energy and enthusiasm—which usually only happened when the topic was business-related—held her captive, made her reactions impulsive.

“No. Why?”

“Do you have any experience with plants or gardening?”

“Erm…if you consider watering the orchids in our foyer as experience, then yes.”

Where did that easy, almost joking, flirty manner of hers come from? Why did his eyes sparkle and his grin widen so appreciatively? And why did she feel like putty in his hands, as she had those days with Mark?

“Hm. Orchids do require a special kind of love.”

The humor in his voice was something she wasn’t used to. As was the way he looked intently straight at her with every word, as though she mattered. She was growing more confused—and, dare she admit it, attracted—by the minute.

“Anyway, never worry, I should have enough experience for both of us. Here’s my suggestion: If you really want to make up for it, and if you would grant me the chance to have a second go at leaving a first impression, you could join me in my work today.”

When he saw her shocked reaction flitter across her face, he hurried on with his words in a way that belied his show of easy confidence.

“There’s much to do and it’s decidedly more fun if I’m not alone but in charming company. What do you say, can you help me with gardening?”

Cathy was feeling dazed. Only certain words had registered with her first: Love, experience, fun, charming company. Charming? Did he mean her? No, he couldn’t, though that twinkle in his eyes spoke of a man flirting and he had by now taken at least a step closer to her. Despite herself, even after the full meaning of his words had seeped in, she found herself answering, “Yes. Yes, I’d help you. The thing is, I don’t think I’d be much good at it.”

“Perfect!”

He was positively beaming like a high-wattage light bulb now, his toothy grin flashing at her and tugging at her heart strings.

“Let’s get this shopping done with and get straight on with the work.”

There was no stopping him. Before she knew it, he had possessively taken hold of her elbow and was steering her toward the cashier counter, not having bought anything he had come for and not asking whether she had all she needed.

She felt oddly as if having an out-of-body experience. She watched herself be tugged along wordlessly, confusion showing on her face. She watched herself smiling at Bertha again, who glanced at both of them and wasn’t successful at hiding a rather satisfied look on her face while processing her goods. She watched as he packed her shopping into two bags which he took in one hand while his other was still holding on to her elbow as though he was afraid she’d go back on her word and run away.

Outside the shop, her brain kicked back in when he let go of her and pointed to a bicycle parked next to the sidewalk with a self-deprecating, lopsided grin that made him look way too attractive.

“I’m afraid my vehicle won’t live up to your city life expectations, but I wasn’t expecting to leave with a co-passenger. I’d say we walk to where I have work today, it isn’t far. You don’t mind, I hope?”

He turned to her and she barely managed to shake her head. It earned her another high-wattage smile, making her wonder dizzily whether Mark had ever smiled that much in the span of 17 months. Michael started walking, wheeling his bike with her shopping bags dangling from the handles along and looking so energetic that it felt contagious.

God, what had she done in agreeing to this? Would she live through this day without going through hell?

(To be continued tomorrow!)

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#FreeDailyRead - When I See Your Face, Part 6

When I See Your Face, Part 6 When Cathy opened her mouth to protest, Mrs. Grindle held up both hands.

“No, wait, wait, you agreed to let me have my say. This man might look incredibly like your husband—in fact, I could swear they’re long lost twins—but he is most definitely not the person you think he is.”

When Cathy merely stared at her, she went on, “His name is Michael Newland. He has been living in our village for the past six to seven years. He’s our gardener and an artist too. As far as I know, he has never been married. Even if you don’t feel like believing that two people can look so similar, you will have to. Including me, there are several dozen people here who can vouch for his identity, let alone for the fact that he’s been living here continuously for the past years and can’t have led a double life with you someplace else.”

The confusion in Mrs. Grindle’s eyes belied the conviction in her voice. As for herself, she felt as though someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over her head. This couldn’t be! Or could it? The man in the shop, not Mark… That meant she hadn’t been discovered and the divorce would go through, didn’t it?
The small green shoot of the plant called hope that had sprung up inside her, only to be trampled upon, raised itself again, leaf by tiny leaf. Not Mark but a certain Michael. The one in a million chance of somebody looking exactly like her husband and living at the very same village that she had chosen for her new start. It couldn’t be true, and yet if the old lady said so and there was apparently a whole village population to back her up, it had to be true.

“Are you quite sure, Aunt Grindle?” she finally found herself asking, copying the older lady not only in wording but also in its tone of utter confusion.

It was her companion’s turn to nod silently.

Cathy stared at Mark’s photo on the table, at Mrs. Grindle’s face, into blank space, trying hard and failing miserably at comprehending what seemed impossible.

“My dear, I’d best leave you to yourself to get to terms with this unbelievable information. But let me ask something of you—though I’m not in a position to ask you for favors.”

With the young woman looking on, the landlady pressed ahead, laying a veined hand on the trembling one.

“You should…Could you apologize to Michael? He is a respectable person who’s had the shock of his life. We all like him immensely and he has deserved an apology for being screamed and shoved at. Believe me, I absolutely don’t blame you. However, if you could find the strength to face him and say one word of sorry, I’d be forever grateful.”

With that, Mrs. Grindle gave her hand a last press, got up and left the room, not without a backward glance at Mark’s photo on the table that stood out so clearly that it seemed to burn a hole into the wood.

Strength. If she could find the strength inside her to apologize… From where was she supposed to get any strength? She shook herself all over as though she had been doused with cold water. She took Mark’s photo from the table and looked at it, hard and long. His features were small but all the more clear due to the black and white of the portrait. His high forehead that looked even higher due to the neat hairstyle, his grey-blue eyes that looked lighter due to the black of his hair. The thin lips that were set in a winning, toothy smile ever so slightly crooked at one corner. It was all so familiar to her. And yet, she had confused another man for him, her own husband alongside whom she had lived for roughly two years.

Closing her eyes, she willed herself to relive that shameful moment in the shop, trying to focus on the details, but realizing that she had been much too worked up to notice any details at all.

There were only two things that caught her attention and spoke for the truth of Aunt Grindle’s words: There was the man’s—she couldn’t call him Michael, give him a name, and accept the fact yet—casual attire that her husband would never have chosen for leaving the house. And there was the look of bewilderment on his face that had barely registered with her alongside his stuttering. And hadn’t he called her “Miss?” Coming to think of it, there was no way that Mark would have reacted like that. Especially not if he had planned on confronting her.

Shaking herself again, she sucked in a breath. There was no denying it, Mrs. Grindle must have told her the truth. Which meant that she had been worried for no reason. And which also meant that she had screamed at an innocent stranger in broad daylight in a shop full of villagers. Cringing, she remembered her landlady’s request which had in fact been more of a plea. Would she ever be able to look her husband’s double in the face and say a word she would never want to say to her husband?

* * *

Cathy picked listlessly at her breakfast. Appetite or plain hunger evaded her because she knew she would have to go out and face the world, such as the village and its inhabitants, again from today onwards. Sure, contrary to what she had feared, Mark hadn’t sought her out and their divorce proceedings were most probably still rolling. Yet, there were people to confront whose opinion—she was astonished to realize it—did mean something to her. And there was an apology to make that made her sweat merely by thinking about it.

She swallowed the last piece of bread, rinsed her plate and knife, drank her coffee and grabbed her handbag from its hook. It was useless to prolong the inevitable. That was a lesson she had learned during the past few months, painful but helpful too.

Inside the shop, she held on fast to her shopping list as though it were her life vest. She gave the cashier lady a timid smile and felt ridiculously relieved when it was answered by a kinder, bigger smile. Bertha looked like she had a dozen things to say and ask, but Cathy fled into the heart of the shop, not quite ready for a game of Q&A yet. She was engrossed in replenishing her food stock and remembering what she had left behind during her last stint at the shop. Best to concentrate on the here and now and keep herself busy with small tasks than to fret about what she would have to face later.

When she rounded a bend and lifted her head to scan a shelf of tinned food, her gaze fell on the cashier counter. She nearly dropped her shopping basket, and seriously considered retracing her steps and hiding behind the shelves for a while. There, chatting to Bertha, was Mark’s clone, the one person she was least ready to confront today.

(To be continued tomorrow!)

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#FreeDailyRead - When I See Your Face, Part 5

When I See Your Face, Part 5 Chapter 2


“Cathy dear? I know you’re in there. It’s Aunt Grindle. Please open the door!”

God, why didn’t she have it in her to ignore the old lady’s pleading? Cathy swallowed hard, already half off the couch to answer the door.

More than a day had gone by since the horrible, humiliating incident in the shop. As she had resolved that evening, she hadn’t left the house since, living on her last stock of food and not daring to approach the window or keep the lights on at night.

Mrs. Grindle had been calling her at her door in the morning, at lunchtime and again in the evening, the last time obviously with an offering of food whose delicious smell had made her empty stomach do a few cartwheels. Each time, her voice had grown more worried and Cathy had grown more reluctant to keep silent.

Now, on the morning of the second day, she didn’t have the heart to refuse Mrs. Grindle. This was the one person who had shown her real kindness after months and months of being either ignored, flattered, laughed upon or abused.

“Cathy?”

“I’m coming,” she called out, her voice rough with crying so much and not drinking enough.

She had at first been fearing that Mark might have charmed her landlady and would try to enter her room with her, but somehow, this seemed ridiculous to her now. All she wanted was to look upon that kind, wrinkled face and listen to Mrs. Grindle chatter away effortlessly. She had a feeling though, that quite some talking on her side—anything but effortlessly—would be warranted.

As soon as she had opened the door, she was enveloped in a hug that almost knocked her off her feet and brought a prickling of fresh tears to her eyes. Mrs. Grindle pressed her to her ample bosom for a quiet minute, held her away at arm’s length, looker her over and clucked disapprovingly.

“My dear, how can you frighten me so? Look at your gaunt face and your red eyes! I was worried out of my wits! If you hadn’t opened the door this time, I would have asked Mr. Beckhurst—he’s the village policeman—to break the door in and check whether you’re still alive.”

The old lady’s voice was shaking audibly and Cathy cringed with guilt.

“I’m…fine. I just needed some time alone.”

“You’re anything but fine, my dear. Have you been starving yourself? Now you sit down right here and don’t move a finger. Aunt Grindle will hurry down and get you something to eat.”

Before she could reply, Mrs. Grindle had pushed her down onto the couch in a no-nonsense manner and was shuffling out of the room with surprising speed.

She waited without moving, her heart pounding in her chest for fear that this might be a trap and that her landlady would return with Mark in tow or said policeman. When Aunt Grindle came back, though, she was loaded with a loaf of brown bread, a banana, a tub of yoghurt and a packet of sausages. She didn’t let her protest, nor did she let her get up to cut the bread into slices and fry the sausages. Only when the young woman was chewing away on the improvised meal did the old lady calm down somewhat. She sat down next to her and for a while was content watching her eat. Finally, sitting up straighter, she broke the silence.

“I know we villagers tend to be rather snoopy and you townsfolk like to keep to themselves. However, there is something we should talk about.”

She held up a hand when Cathy opened her mouth to answer, not quite knowing what to say but willing to appease her companion.

“As you probably know, I heard about what happened at the shop. Bertha, the cashier lady, told me so over the phone that same day when you never came back to pick up your groceries and she got worried what might have happened to you. I will not judge you, but I need you to answer some questions truthfully.”

Here, Mrs. Grindle fixed her with a stern look that reminded her of a school teacher she had been quite scared of in her childhood. A nod was her only answer, though inside her head, a panicked voice was asking her to not reveal a thing, pack her belongings and leave before the situation got ugly for all.

“Why did you scream at…that man? What has he done to make you scold him so?”

There it was. She could break down sobbing now and confess her story of suffering or she could coldly tell the old lady to keep out of other people’s business. In the end, she did neither.

“That was my husband,” she said, adding with a coolness that surprised herself, “Hopefully to be my ex-husband soon.”

Mrs. Grindle’s eyebrows rose so high that they disappeared into her white hairline. For a second, she stared in astonishment almost palpable.

“Are you quite sure, my dear?” the old landlady finally asked.

Why couldn’t she stop being so inquisitive?!

“Well, I should know what my own husband looks like, now shouldn’t I?” Cathy snapped despite herself.

Aunt Grindle held up both hands in defense and seemed to ponder something.

“Cathy, I know this doesn’t make sense to you, but I promise I’ll explain myself in just another minute. Just one more thing: Do you by chance have a photo of your husband with you?”

Having no idea why the old lady wanted a photo, Cathy shook her head, deciding better not to snap at her again and hear her out. It was then that she remembered that she did have a photo.

She went to her handbag that was hanging by the door, fished out her embroidered cloth purse and took out the small picture of Mark that she had been carrying in it ever since their engagement. It was one of those photos he dealt out to the press when the time was ripe for another magazine interview with the nation’s rising star on the real estate sky.


Her husband was portrayed in a bust-sized black-and-white shot, in black suit jacket, white shirt and dark tie. He looked younger than his age of 37 and terribly handsome. With his tall, slim frame, his hard but well-proportioned facial features, his neatly gelled shock of black hair and his piercing gaze, he was a lady’s man in the way that screamed certain words at you. Rich, self-confident, successful, cool, apparently focusing all his attention solely on the person looking at him.

She bit her lip looking at the photo for a moment, lost in happier memories of her pre-marriage relationship with Mark, lost in a time when her friends all envied her the perfect match. Tearing her gaze from his, she silently held out the photo.

The old landlady let out a small gasp and involuntarily grabbed the photo out of Cathy’s hand, holding it closer to her eyes and staring at it as though there was a secret to be discovered. Swallowing audibly, she caught herself, mumbled an apology and placed the photo on the coffee table. During the next few sentences that she spoke very deliberately, her eyes strayed off to the photo a couple of times without her realizing it.

“So that is your husband.”

It was more a statement than a question, and one filled with a strange kind of confusion.

Cathy nodded and forced herself to spit out the words she’d rather have kept secret.

“We have been married for more than a year, but I have only ever earned abuse. So some weeks ago, I left home and fled to this village to start a new life. I had received a message that my husband wants a divorce but then…then he turned up here to ruin everything.”

As an afterthought, she added, “I’m sorry for causing a scene. I guess I lost it.”

Mrs. Grindle’s face softened, although she still looked more confused than would have been normal.

“Now please let me explain the whole thing to you. Don’t interrupt, dear, or I won’t be able to believe my own words.”

She paused a second as if to collect herself, before she ploughed resolutely ahead.

“The man you have seen at the shop, the man you shouted at…he’s not your husband.”

(To be continued tomorrow!)

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#SneakPeekSunday - Cover Reveal: Dancing with Fire

Instead of just sharing an excerpt from my work-in-progress as I usually do it on Tuesdays (#TeaseMeTuesday) and Sundays (#SneakPeekSunday), I want to allow you all a glimpse of a different kind today. *drum roll* Ladies and gents, here's the cover reveal for my upcoming paranormal romance novel "Dancing with Fire", the sequel to "Playing with Fire"! Coming soon: Dancing with Fire, FIRE Trilogy, Book 2 Initially, I had planned to write only "Playing with Fire" as a stand-alone and move on to the elements water, earth and air to have a complete paranormal romance series called "4 Elements of Love".
But being the hot-headed, temperamental fire witch that she is, Felicia insisted that her story wasn't finished by a long shot. After all, hadn't I hinted at things to come, although I had written a happy ending?
Inevitably, I found myself typing away on a sequel, and then I decided - or rather, Felicia demanded - that there will be a FIRE Trilogy with 3 books featuring fire witch Felicia and ice wizard Joshua. Already Available: Playing with Fire Planned Book 3, Living with Fire Without boring you with more details than you want to know, let me leave you with the blurb for "Dancing with Fire". I still have about 5 chapters to write, and I'm really excited about the novel (and the cover).


Blurb

When a fire witch and an ice wizard flee to Iceland to build a new life, they never expect the one thing that could tear them apart – Kyle, adding his own magic into the mix. Felicia starts questioning everything they have. She is torn between the man who loves her but is her polar opposite, and the man who attracts her but means nothing but trouble.
As if her confusing emotions weren’t enough, Felicia finds her life turned upside down when a terrifying natural disaster threatens the end of the country and the entire world.
Will she be able to control her gift and play the part that is expected of her? Will she give in to temptation or will she save the world?


If you follow me on Facebook, you can read quite a few snippets from  "Dancing with Fire". In case you want a look at "Playing with Fire", which is available as an eBook and a paperback, you can indulge in some excerpts here.

#FreeDailyRead - When I See Your Face, Part 4

When I See Your Face, Part 4 It was close to midnight on her watch when Cathy returned to the guesthouse.

She had spent the better half of the day out in the fields surrounding the village, switching between crouching in the grass and fretting, and walking up and down hills, actually enjoying all the natural beauty around her. Despite the anxiety that would hit her once an hour as though on a hidden schedule, the afternoon in the countryside had helped to soothe her nerves. Amidst ankle-high to knee-high grass, butterflies, bees and the odd bird, she had fallen to repeating to herself: I can do this. I will manage. I can do this.

In between, she had given in to memories. Dusk had settled in and made her feel uncomfortable, on edge. She had felt cold inside. Hollow, as though somebody had cut off her head neatly at the neck, dipped a huge soup ladle into it and scooped out all that was her, that could make her happy or at least make her function.

This time of the day had always been her nemesis, much more so than the night, which she dreaded too. It was the time when she half wished for and half feared that Mark might come home and actually notice her. The time when she couldn’t forget herself in sleep yet and the hold of the day with its routine got too loose to keep her busy.

For a minute, she dwelt on what might happen now if she were still at home. She heard the front door open and close softly and her husband call out to her. “Darling, be a good doll and fetch me something to eat right away. I’ve brought us some champagne for dinner.” He’d be in that suspiciously good mood of his because he had landed another big deal with the rich and beautiful of the city. It meant having to sit by his side for hours while he consumed plateful after plateful of choice food and drank even more champagne. He would fondle her thigh under the dinner table or maybe try to feed her before the alcohol got the better of him and he’d right out drag her into his bedroom and have his way with her.

Or else, the door might slam shut, accompanied by a muttered curse. Her husband would plonk himself on the couch in the living-room with a half-empty bottle of vodka in his hand and his tie loose around his neck. She wouldn’t hear from him the whole evening, but had to listen to him wander around the house muttering curses under his breath and punching a wall here and there or stumbling over his unlaced leather shoes. The end of the evening would be much the same in this case, unless he had already come home drunk and passed out before he remembered her as a way of cheap gratification, hiding in her dark bedroom upstairs.

Snapping out of these recollections with difficulty, Cathy had collected all the courage she could muster and turned back on the long walk into the village.

After more anxiety and two wrong turns, she had approached the guesthouse, cautious and suspicious.

Was there any glimpse of her husband waiting for her to put her foot into the trap?

Did she hear anything out of the ordinary?

It was all she could do to keep herself from hugging the corners, stalking the shades and crawling along the ground like the detective in a movie.

A few steps short of the main door, she pressed herself against a wall and waited with baited breath. There was nobody to be seen, as always in this village once the darkness of evening settled in and everyone presumably stuffed themselves with hearty country food in the middle of a big and boisterous family circle.

Squaring her shoulders, she grabbed the key inside her pocket tighter and hurried up the three steps to the door. It was unlocked, as usual. If it wasn’t locked, that meant that Mark could just walk in and make himself at home while waiting to pounce on her, didn’t it?

She spun around to scan her surroundings, found not a shape in sight and closed the door behind her with a sigh of relief. How she wished she could throw a bolt. Wanting to avoid a meeting with a concerned, no doubt knowing Aunt Grindle, she took the stairs two at a time, unlocked her apartment door in record time and leaned against it from inside, breathing hard as if after a race. And maybe it had been a race of sorts, one against her own fear more than against the possibility that Mark might be waiting for her.

She couldn’t fathom what he wanted from her, how he had found her and what he would do next. Heck, she couldn’t fathom what she would do next. One thing was clear: She would not go back to him. Somehow, she had to find the strength in herself to not give in to the considerable charm he possessed. It had tricked her one time, but she vowed to herself that it would be the last time. How did that saying go? Shame on you if you fool me once, shame on me if you fool me twice. She felt shame indeed, and she wasn’t going to give herself more reason to be ashamed. She deserved better—even if better meant leading a lonely life as a single in a village, locked away from the world.

Locked away. Yes, she would remain in her room for some days without going out. That should get her message across, in case Mark stayed and tried to persuade her to do whatever it was that he wanted from her. If only she had today’s groceries with her, she could last for quite some time. A glance into the fridge and the kitchen cupboards affirmed it: Even if she practically fasted, more than two days in hiding wouldn’t be possible.

Unwilling to cry again or let her resolve crumble, Cathy made herself two cheese-and-ham sandwiches and ate them right there, standing in the kitchenette with the living-room lights off. Every single bite did its best to get stuck in her throat and tasted like sand, but she knew she needed some food inside her system after the shock and long walk in the hills. Washing the meal down with a glass of water and another one, she went into the attached bathroom and had a long, much too hot shower as if to cleanse herself not only from dust and sweat but also from today’s events and a life’s worth of bad memories.

Before going to bed, she told herself, “I will live on somehow. I won’t give up and I won’t listen to my stupid heart anymore—because I don’t need a heart now. After all, nothing and no-one will ever make me fall in love again.”

(To be continued tomorrow!) PART 1 PART 2 PART 3

#FreeDailyRead - When I See Your Face, Part 3

When I See Your Face, Part 3 There, standing in the doorway in blue jeans and a blue T-shirt—since when was he wearing casual clothes out of home?—was her husband, the very person she was striving so hard to forget. He was looking at them with an unreadable expression on his face, holding a bouquet of yellow roses in his hands as if it were the most normal thing in the world for him and he belonged right here. As if she hadn’t run away from him and he hadn’t notified her that he would file for divorce.

Something snapped in her at that instant, with a loud, hard, whipping, energy-charged sound that she could hear clearly. Before she knew it, she had stormed toward him, raising herself to her full height and nearly bursting with feelings.

“You…you deceitful bastard of a man! What do you think you’re doing here, bringing me a bunch of freaking roses?! Do you think flowers will make up for making me suffer for almost two years? Are you honestly so full of yourself that you think I’ll return to you? Or have you gotten down from your mighty high horse because you’ve realized that your life is nothing—nothing—without me?”

She was screaming at the top of her voice. Forgotten were the cashier lady and the other people inside the shop. Forgotten was the fact that she had never during their marriage dared to raise her voice to her husband. He was standing there with his mouth hanging open like a ridiculous comic book caricature of himself, the bouquet having dropped from his hands to the floor.

“Don’t you dare to keep a hold on me! Let me live my life and you go and live your dreary, shameful life of yours that I don’t want to be a part of anymore!”

While she caught her breath to let loose another tirade, Mark tried to say something. His words barely registered with her, so hurt and angry and determined was she.

“Miss…this…this must be a misunderstanding. I…”

That did it. She exploded.

“Leave me alone!”

Shoving at him with both hands, she pushed past him and through the door. Running aimlessly as far away from the shop as possible and as fast as her legs would carry her, she fled her nightmare come alive. When after some time, there was a stitch in her chest and she had to slow down, she realized that she was crying. Stopping and steadying herself with a shoulder against some house’s whitewashed wall in one of the many side streets, she tried to catch her breath and come to her senses. Sob after sob escaped her. Everything was a blur in front of her eyes and she felt so weak, she thought she would collapse right then and there. Slowly, with jerky movements like a puppet on a string, she leaned her back against the wall and lowered herself to the ground. Bringing her knees up, resting her head on top of them and encircling herself with her arms, she cried and cried until no more tears would come.

He had found her. He had come after her. There would be no escape, no future, and no happiness for her.

Why? Why could he not go through with the divorce, now that she had also hired a lawyer and was more than ready to leave it all behind? How cruel could he be?

It was useless, it was all useless. She raised her head and fished in her pockets for a handkerchief to dry her face before she remembered that all her groceries were forgotten at the shop. And where was the shop?

She looked around bleakly, trying to distinguish the lane from all the other similar-looking ones in the village, trying to judge how far she had run. The shop building was nowhere to be seen. For nothing in the world did she want to retrace her steps and confront anyone there or be faced with her husband again.

With shaky legs—for how many months had her legs been shaky now?—she got up and tried to get a grip on herself. She would go wherever this street was leading until she recognized the area from her walks through the village. After all, there wasn’t much space to get lost in. She’d make her way back to her apartment—oh shit! What if Mark had inquired where she stayed and would be waiting for her there? No, she shouldn’t go back to her room and like a dumb fish willingly swim into the net that her husband had surely cast. What else was there to do?


(To be continued tomorrow!)

PART 1
PART 2

#FreeDailyRead - When I See Your Face, Part 2

Chapter 1 (partly) Cathy took a moment to feast her eyes on the view before her.

Neat little houses with gabled roofs and flower-filled gardens. Further out, rolling green hills and fields against the backdrop of an impossibly blue sky. The contrast to the glittering high-rises and crowded streets that had been her view for so long couldn’t be bigger. She hung some hand-washed clothes over the railing of the balcony that her small apartment in the guesthouse was blessed with. When she caught herself whistling, she nearly dropped the last top onto her foot.

My God, when was the last time she had actually whistled? Or felt happy and carefree enough to whistle? She honestly couldn’t remember, though she would bet her newly washed clothes that it must have been in the blissfully ignorant first weeks after the wedding. Now, roughly 17 months and at least twice as many bruises later, things had changed so much that whistling seemed a sacrilege, something the Cathy of a past life might have done, but not her. Living with an abusive husband had a certain dulling effect on spontaneous displays of happiness like whistling.

With a sigh, she walked back inside. More than seven days had passed since that fateful night when she had left her home and her husband. More than seven days since Mark had slapped her cheek so hard that her head spun for minutes, since he had kissed her forcefully until her lips were sore and finally passed out drunk on the couch before anything more dreadful could happen. More than seven days since she had packed part of her belongings and resolved to start life over again, without a husband who didn’t love her and whom she had grown to fear and avoid, if not hate. During that span of a week, she had taken a train and a long-distance bus to put several hundred miles between Mark and her, between her old life and her timid budding dreams.

On the second day, she had stumbled upon this charming village almost in the middle of nowhere that was full of kind but all too inquisitive people, old-fashioned buildings and sun-filled lanes with hardly a car in sight, and had decided that this would be the ideal place to open a new chapter in her life. The first days of terror—Would he find her? Would somebody guess? Was she doing something wrong? How would she cope alone?—had made it impossible to leave the room and to think a clear thought. Yesterday, however, some sort of haze had lifted. She had decided that there was absolutely nothing to prevent her from settling down right here. All those generous amounts of money that Mark had been transferring to her account month after month meant that she was in no hurry to find a job and could stay in this holiday apartment to plan the details of her future.

She had to do something, keep herself occupied, and refrain from remembering and doubting and feeling guilty. But what was there to do? There was nobody she would want to call and talk to, her so-called friends having abandoned her shortly after her marriage because they had thought her foolish or because she had never answered their calls. She had blocked Mark’s number on her mobile phone and hadn’t dared to check her email account for fear of having a message from him. See, there was something that would keep her occupied for a while: Face her fears head-on and get over them.

When she fired up her laptop and checked her inbox, there were two messages waiting for her. One was clearly spam. The other one came from an all too familiar email address. It had no subject line and no signature and was only one sentence long.

I am filing for divorce.

Gulping, Cathy realized she was gripping her mouse much too tightly. She let go of it and instead brought both her hands to her forehead, pressing her fingers into her throbbing temples. Well, if that didn’t take things forward considerably. She let out a shaky breath and was amazed to find that she wasn’t crying. Fine, he’d get what he wanted from her, for the last time in his life. Because she wanted it too, that final cutting of bonds that would set her free and prove to her and him once and for all that she was better off without a husband who knew how to make her suffer, but not how to make her feel loved or even acknowledged.

She clicked away at the keyboard in determination. There was much to keep her occupied now, what with having to find a lawyer and informing herself about divorce procedures.

A knock at the door interrupted her concentration. She blinked and looked around, feeling disoriented as though she had surfaced from a long diving trip in the murky waters of a jungle lake.

“Ms. Nolan? Ms. Nolan, are you in there? I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I’ve brought you something.”

That must be Mrs. Grindle, the kind old lady who ran the guesthouse and had bestowed many a warm smile on Cathy right since the day she had booked in.

She got up and hastily opened the door.

“Mrs. Grindle, I’m sorry for letting you wait at the door for so long. Please, do come in.”

The stout, short, white-haired landlady beamed at her.

“I was wondering whether you had fallen asleep,” she said, stepping into the room while balancing a full tray on her hands.

Cathy smiled an embarrassed smile and closed the door.

“Oh no. I was…I had…I guess I was lost in my thoughts,” she answered, not willing to let a cloud overshadow all the sunshine this lovable old woman had brought with her.

Mrs. Grindle bustled busily into the kitchen.

“No dark thoughts, I hope?”

“Actually, I’m not so sure about that,” she surprised herself by replying.

The old lady put the tray down on the kitchen counter carefully and patted her on the arm like one would maybe pat a dog on his head.

“Even better then that I have decided to disturb your privacy. You haven’t had your lunch yet, I hope?”

She shook her head, intimidated by all that kindness and directness.

“Perfect!”

Mrs. Grindle all but glowed with satisfaction and lifted off the lids of the various bowls on the tray.

“I thought you might like a bite or two of home-made food, so I’ve brought you a share of my lunch. Typical village food, nothing sophisticated enough for a posh townswoman like you, Miss Nolan, but much healthier than your normal choice of meal, I’d say.”

One after the other, delicious smells rose into the kitchen air, making her stomach rumble audibly.

“This looks absolutely delightful, Mrs. Grindle! But why did you go to so much trouble?”

“Nonsense, my child, it was no trouble at all. You had better eat it while it’s still hot. Oh, and do call me Aunt Grindle, everyone here does and I feel so high and mighty being called Mrs.”

Cathy couldn’t remember the last time somebody had been so kind to her. Sure, once people had got to know that she was the famous real estate manager Mark Nolan’s wife, they had all but fallen over themselves to gain her favor, but nobody had ever been genuine like this formidable lady with her flowered frock and probably self-knit cardigan.

“Then please call me Cathy,” she said. “I’d rather not be Ms. Nolan.”

“Perfect. Now, you’d better eat up and get some fat on those slim limbs of yours, dear. Make sure you eat the dessert too.”

Before she knew it, she had asked Mrs. Grindle to stay and her new-found Aunt was chattering away happily while Cathy lustily devoured her lunch with more appetite than during the past 17 months taken together.

 
* * *

Today really was one of her better days.

She had gone out for some afternoon shopping. Automatically, she returned the smile that the cashier gave her when she reached the counter with her full basket.

“Found all you need?” the unpretentious middle-aged lady behind the counter asked her.

“Yes, thanks,” Cathy replied.

Things were so different here. All throughout high school, college and marriage, she must have lived on another planet. A few hundred miles of travelling had apparently brought her into another world. She could already feel herself loosening up. Remembering less and living more. She still dreamt of her husband every night, waking up screaming from an all too vivid nightmare, but during daytime she managed to keep him out of her thoughts. There was never a fond memory or longing or regret, only self-induced guilt and fear of the future. However, hope was starting to grow inside her, a timid, light green shoot reaching a slim arm out of the soil and into the sunlight. Maybe this wasn’t so difficult after all.

The tinkling of a bell announced another customer entering the shop. Both of them turned to look.

It was…Mark.

(To be continued tomorrow!)

Read Part 1 here.

#FreeDailyRead - When I See Your Face, Part 1

Remember those days when you looked forward to buying a newspaper or magazine because there was a serial story included? I do, and I also remember the suspense of having to wait a week to know what would happen next... Which is exactly why you won't have to wait a whole week to read more of this story! Instead, I'll be posting 'bite-sized' snippets daily.
Starting from today, you can read a part of my bestselling debut, the contemporary romance novel "When I See Your Face", here on my blog and on Wattpad. I will be posting a few paragraphs every day until the book is finished. For those of you who don't want to wait: The eBook is available for free download here. Blurb Cathy has had enough. Having run away from her abusive husband, she tries to pick up the broken pieces of her life in a remote village, focusing on her dream to start her own cake business. Finding true love is the last thing on her mind. When she comes face to face with a man who looks exactly like the one she is struggling to forget, life throws the biggest challenge yet at her: Should she give in to his charm and care or is history going to repeat itself?

Prologue Enough is enough.

Cathy wiped at the tears streaming down her face with one hand while the other hand continued to stuff her clothes into a suitcase that was as medium-sized as her life. Whatever she could lay her hands on wandered into the suitcase until it was half full. Bending down, she selected two pairs of summer sandals and threw them on top of the clothes pile. Mechanically, like a toy soldier wound tight and confined to tiny, practiced movements, she dumped the suitcase onto her bed, walked over to her dressing table and grabbed a handful of items for her cosmetic bag.

She avoided looking into the mirror because the sight of her own face with its puffed-up red eyes and runny nose from all the crying and not least its ugly swelling on the left cheek might have stopped her in her tracks. She didn’t need the mirror to remind her of the latest beating.

This time, nothing should be able to stop her. Not her guilty conscience. Not her insecurity. Not the physical and emotional pain. Not the shiny wedding ring with the tiny diamond. Not the snoring from downstairs that was audible whenever she ceased sobbing.

She grabbed the first couple of books she could lay her hands on. The sobbing had subsided by the time she had closed the suitcase. Six steps across the room brought her to the desk where she packed her laptop into its richly embroidered case, slid her phone into her handbag and as an afterthought took a notepad and pen out of the upper drawer. She poised the pen to write, but her hand hovered uselessly above the blank paper.

What to write? There was nothing she felt like saying. No word or sentence that could sum up what she felt right now and didn’t want to feel anymore.

After a few moments of hesitation, she took a deep breath, dropped the pen onto the desk and turned around to look at her room. It was impossible to figure out whether she had taken everything important or when and how she would get what had been left behind. Actually, it was impossible to think at all. Better to act as long as that strange determination still held her captive.

She slung her handbag over one shoulder, hefted the suitcase off the bed and left her room without a backward glance, turning the light switch with an elbow and softly kicking the door shut with her heel. As mechanically as before, she padded down the stairs into the foyer, slipped into a pair of comfortable sneakers and headed for the door. The snoring from the living-room followed her, like the growl of a tiger lying in wait or the purr of a car speeding after her.

As if her feet had a will of their own, they carried her to the front door, through it and all the way down the driveway to the front gate. It was there that she turned and spared the house a last glance. A place that had never really been her home but rather a prison, especially for the past few months. An elegant façade and grand exterior that held nothing but deceit, cruelty, despair and a failed marriage.

With a gesture speaking of true determination for the first time, and of finality, Cathy let the big black cast iron gate click shut behind her. Her tears had dried and she was still full of some kind of energy that might be adrenaline or shock or both. With hurried steps and a heartbeat racing ahead of her at a frantic speed, she all but ran to the station where she knew she would find a way to escape.

(To be continued tomorrow.)


Read Part 2 here.

Featured - The Harder They Fall by JoAnna Grace

The Harder They Fall by JoAnna Grace Series: Blake Pride, #3Genre: Paranormal Romance/Urban Fantasy
Publisher: Winged J Press
Cover Designer: Jelaine GeorgeRelease Date: July 21, 2015


With two newly mated couples in the alpha house, Conall needs a serious breather. He’s used to being the fifth wheel but now the distinction is amplified. When the opportunity for a couple days of freedom arises, he volunteers to take winter supplies to a mountain-dwelling widow and then spend some time hiking alone. Plans change when he meets a woman who evokes his lion’s protective streak and stirs his human desires. She meets none of his expectations for a mate, but that might be exactly what he needs.

Madelyn has been alone for nearly a decade. Ashamed of what she has become, she banished herself from the Blackburn Pack and resigned herself to a solitary life in the mountains. With no plans of change, it’s alarming when a young, alluring lion shifter arrives awakening her senses and challenging her situation. Her inner bear is still haunted by the last man who tried to claim her and she doesn’t want to make the same mistake again.  Madelyn must discern if Conall is worth the risk or of he’s another heartbreak just waiting to happen.

While Conall is tucked away in the woods with Madelyn, the rest of his Pride faces an attack. In haste to go rescue his friends, he might throw the most vulnerable person of all to the wolves. But are they friend or foe?



     It was all too easy to let his mind wander, to think about absolutely nothing except for where his paws would land with the next step. The walking path to the cabin was clear if you knew to look for the notches in the trees. He could travel like this all day and not get bored, never tire. Being in the wilderness liberated his lion; the burden he carried behind him only added a minor challenge to his muscular frame.
     This was exactly what he needed.
     The next four hours passed slowly and quietly, a vast change from the chaos of the last few weeks. For the first time in a long time, he turned off his brain and let his lion dominate his actions. His wide paws navigated the terrain with no problems. His ears alerted him to the movement of the forest creatures and his nose picked up the various scents of nature. Conall lost himself into his lion and his human counterpart took a well-needed mental nap.
     Then he heard an angel.
     The voice echoed around the woods and he froze with one paw off the ground. His feline ears perked up. After living with Vivian Blake, diva extraordinaire, for five years, he knew musical talent when he heard it. Vivian had the most beautiful voice he’d ever heard…until right then. Closing his eyes, he crouched down, still as death, to listen. The notes rose and fell flawlessly on pitch and with incredible ease. Her range was awe-inspiring. His breath caught in his throat as he listened to her build up to a note so high and delicate, it caused his heart to soar in anticipation. The emotion of the words, the love conveyed in every measure resonated in his chest. Tendrils of melody wrapped around him, gripping him tighter with every beat. Had he been in human form, he might have fallen to his knees. As it was, the four legs of his lion shook with the driving need to get closer to the source of such mesmerizing singing.
     He took cautious steps over the crest of the hill to look upon the cottage set snugly among the evergreens. Green tin roof and logs made from local timber provided camouflage. Smoke rose from the chimney; the smell traveling the air currents was divine. Three chairs rocked on the porch, pushed by the invisible hands of the wind. Although the coming winter cold had scared them away, it was clear the cottage was usually framed with flowers. A brown picket fence protected a garden. He envisioned Snow White singing to the forest creatures as they scuttled around her feet.
     Ha, he thought. Any moment now, some old woman would come outside with a radio in her hand.
     He didn’t want the fantasy to end. The lion closed his eyes and let the gentle voice wash over him. Peace settled in his chest, a heavy weight dissolved from his shoulders. The notes infiltrated his veins and he felt absolutely drunk with contentment. Her love song pierced him and eased each breath he took.
     Incredible…
     The notes cut off as soon as the wind shifted.
     “Who’s there?” chimed an angelic voice. His singer.




Book 1: Pride Before the Fall
Book 2: Break Her Fall

JoAnna Grace lives in a world of alpha males and strong females where true love conquers all—at least in her mind! Author of The Divine Chronicles, the Blake Pride Series, and more, this writer loves paranormal and urban fantasy romance novels.

From the time she started holding a crayon she began to create magical worlds. Her first book was a series of pictures about a puppy princess. The story changed each time she told it, but there was always a happy ending! Her first written story was about girls who changed into tigers.
Now those stories have become a bit more complex.

JoAnna’s tales are spun at her home in East Texas where she lives with her husband, three kids, and a couple dogs. When not hiding behind the computer screen you can find her camping, boating, and shopping.

Sign up for her newsletter to receive information about new releases, events, and giveaways! www.authorjoannagrace.com




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