Julia Kelly's Blog, page 24

A Sneak Peek of The Wedding Week

I’ve had a couple of historical posts recently, so I wanted to change it up this week because I’ve got a big contemporary release coming out in just eight days (hey, my motto’s “Sexy in every century” for a reason).

Today I’m sharing the first chapter of my book The Wedding Week (which first appeared as a novella in One Week in Hawaii). It’s a sexy, fun contemporary romance set in beautiful Hawaii. In it you’ll meet Annie Kalani, a no nonsense wedding planner, and the man who makes her want to break all the rules, Chris Benson.

If you like what you read, you can preorder The Wedding Week for $2.99:

Amazon: http://amzn.to/1Ov3VvP

Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1WAO7zr

iBooks: http://apple.co/1NvcnAf

Kobo: http://bit.ly/24TSVkY

B&N: http://bit.ly/1TQWsZi

Smashwords: http://bit.ly/1WAOiKY

And without further ado…

Chapter One

Don’t panic.

Annie Kalani wedged her iPhone between her shoulder and her ear as she readjusted the tower of boutonniere boxes under her left arm. “How does a bridesmaid lose an earring in a three-room suite? It must be there somewhere.”

Her assistant Jemma’s voice came thin and high through the phone’s speaker. “She may have snuck a cigarette behind my back while I was coordinating the big reveal.”

Annie stopped dead in her tracks. “What?”

“I know, I know. There are so many people in this bridal suite, she just got out.”

She closed her eyes for a brief second and sent up a prayer to the wedding gods. It was the Friday evening before Memorial Day—the official kickoff of Wedding Week at the Kuhio Resort & Spa, and the start of the busiest three months of her year. Stapling a surly bridesmaid to a caterer’s chair was not how she wanted to ring in the season, but she would do it if she needed to.

“Was she wearing her dress while she was smoking?” she asked, keeping her voice as calm as she could. Couples paid a premium to have her orchestrate their big day. If she panicked, they panicked, so she never panicked. Visibly.

Jemma let out a little huff of relief. “She had a bathrobe on, thankfully.”

“At least we won’t have to Febreze the dress. Just her. There’s some dry shampoo that deodorizes in the kit. Get Johnny to give her a once-over with that, and then swap out her earrings for the pearl studs. They should be in a tiny Ziploc in the front pocket of the kit.”

“Johnny’s almost packed up,” Jemma fretted. The temperamental hairstylist was the best in Oahu, and he knew it. Experience told Annie that love and a little ego stroking was the best way to get him to do what she wanted.

“If he gives you a problem, send him my way,” she said, mashing the elevator’s up button with her pale pink, manicured finger. “And it wouldn’t hurt to mention that we have the booking for Jessica McCreedy’s wedding next May. The budget is unlimited.”

“I’ll let him know.” She could hear the grin in Jemma’s voice.

They said goodbye just as the elevator’s door slid open. With the boxes wedged against the wall, Annie let the phone slide down her arm, catching it in her hand to end the call. Alone in the quiet, she breathed deeply. One mini crisis a wedding. That was all she would tolerate, and the future Mr. and Mrs. Mark Liu just had theirs.

Wedding Week was all about putting out fires as fast as they sprang up. Celebrations at the Kuhio had two-a-day bookings for weddings Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, a fiftieth wedding anniversary dinner Wednesday, a Thursday rehearsal dinner, and five events the following weekend. Things would go wrong—they always did—but Annie would be there to fix them. The groom was late? No problem. The father of the bride got drunk? It’s handled. The flowers didn’t show up? On top of it. Being a planner was like juggling fourteen flaming torches while standing en pointe, and she loved it.

The elevator dinged, and she was out in the hall—boxes and all—in seconds flat. Things were running a few minutes behind schedule, but the buffer time she had built in should take care of that, so long as they didn’t slip any further.

At least the groom hadn’t presented any problems. Yet.

As she approached the groom’s suite, the door opened, and Josh, the wedding photographer, walked out while tucking a lens into his camera bag.

“You’re moving fast, Kalani,” he said with a jerk of his chin at the boxes in her hands. “Boutonnieres?”

“Late boutonnieres. I know we all run on island time, but remind me to kill the florist next time I see him.”

Josh laughed as he ran a hand over his shaved head. “You can’t do that. He’s the only florist you like. Besides, the groom’s good to go.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Really? He didn’t seem like the type to be ready on time.”

Josh grinned as he passed her. “Got you.”

With a sigh, she shifted the boxes back under her arm so she could knock. The door swung open to reveal a groomsman—this one called Dan—with a drink in hand. “Hello, wedding planner!”

She gave him a once-over and nudged through the door. “Your tie is undone.”

He looked down and tugged at one of the bow tie’s ends. “We were just trying to figure it out on YouTube. Gary’s got his done, but everyone else is struggling.”

She lifted the boxes. “Let me put these down. Then I’ll help.”

Dan led her over to a sideboard that also served as a bar. She eyed the levels on the decanter of scotch she’d checked on that morning. About half gone. Calculate that across half a dozen groomsmen plus the man of the hour and it wasn’t too bad. She’d certainly seen more sauced bridal parties on both ends of the gender spectrum before.

She glanced around the richly appointed room. Two groomsmen she’d met at the rehearsal sat on a plush, pale blue couch in front of a Dodgers game. Gary shook his head as he tried to show Dan and Andrew how to take one bold step into manhood and tie a real bow tie. And one man stood with his back to all of them, on his phone. That must be Chris, the late groomsman. She had a dossier on all of the wedding party, but what was on paper often didn’t tell her the whole story. Like the fact that Chris, a Los Angeles chef, hadn’t been able to get away from his restaurant until the morning of the wedding. That meant Annie had spent a good part of the early hours of setup tracking his flight, praying there would be no delays. Now that he was here, all she cared about was that the man was dressed and on time for the actual ceremony.

She would deal with him when he got off the phone. For now, she had tie-struggling groomsmen to put out of their misery.

A movement at the edge of her field of vision caught Annie’s attention. She turned on her nude three-inch high heels and found herself staring at a naked groom.

Well, not naked—wrapped in a towel—but that meant he was wearing a lot less tux than he was supposed to be.

She raised an eyebrow. “Mark, you aren’t dressed.” Before the wedding day, she tried her best to be accommodating, understanding. On the day? Not so much. Her job was to make sure Mark Liu and Karen Curen got to the gauze-covered bamboo pergola that would serve as their altar and said, “I do.” To do that, Mark needed to be clothed. Now. No excuses. No exceptions.

“I was a little late getting in the shower,” he said as he sheepishly ran a hand through his wet hair. Hair that should be pomaded and swept into a perfect, sixties-esque side part, per Karen’s instructions. Time for Mark to learn how to use a hair dryer.

Eric, Investment Banker Groomsman, had detached himself from the Dodgers game long enough to pour a couple of tumblers of Macallan 18. Ice cubes clinked in the glass that he started to hand to the groom.

“Oh no.” She surged forward to intercept the scotch. “Dress now. Drink later. You get married in twenty-six minutes.”

With her free hand squarely on Mark’s shoulder, she pushed him toward the bedroom. “Don’t forget the shirt studs.”

The groom dutifully trudged into the bedroom, sending only a brief, wistful glance at the baseball, booze, and bro time waiting for him in the living room.

When she turned back, she found Frat Boy Dan eyeing her and the glass of scotch in her hand. “Are you going to drink that?”

She could sense the slight edge in his voice. A bossy woman intruding on Man Time. No, not just a woman. A wedding planner, the kind of woman who made her living thinking about lace versus satin. Runners or full tablecloths. Venetian hour or plated desserts. She was the enemy, an intruder, and sometimes groomsmen gave her a hard time. What Dan didn’t know was that her job demanded that she be able to put him in place with ruthless efficiency, all while wearing a pastel, flowered Karen Millen sheath dress and a smile.

For now, however, she’d start with a friendlier approach. “I would like this scotch more than you know,” she said, putting the glass down, “but someone’s got to drive these stilettos. Now, why don’t I help you guys with your bow ties?”

Five minutes later, five groomsmen’s bow ties were in perfect order. The sixth was still pacing back in forth in front of the massive windows looking out over the water to Diamond Head.

Annie planted her hands on her hips, ready to order Late to the Party Chris to grab his tie and get in line, when the man hung up his call. He turned a pair of intense, soulful eyes on her, and he lifted a hand to scrape over the faint trace of a beard. “Are you going to tie me up too?”

The innuendo flowed through her, thick and sweet as golden honey that came to pool between her legs. Oh, this was bad. This was very, very bad.

He was a handsome man in a rugged sort of way. He wore his tux well, but something about him told her that this man was more comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt—broken in and comfortable. Pair that with his short black hair and the loose, confident way he stood with his left hand thrust in his pocket, and he was all sorts of gorgeous.

He was looking at her expectantly, his head cocked, and Annie realized that she was checking out his lean body rather than answering his question. She cleared her throat. “Do you need help?”

His grin was a little lopsided as he set his phone down on a table and picked up either end of his bow tie. Slowly he wove them together, manipulating the black silk into a perfect knot. His fingers would be elegant if it wasn’t for the white slashes of healed scars that were visible even from where she stood. An image flashed through her head—those fingers playing over the smooth skin of her breasts—and a fierce blush exploded over the back of her neck, rushing to her cheeks.

“How did I do?” Chris asked, tugging at the tie to straighten it before letting his hands fall to his side.

He was flirting with her. It wasn’t exactly uncommon behavior for a groomsman, especially when you threw alcohol into the mix, but this was different. This time, Annie wanted to flirt back.

No. You have rules.

“You look fine,” she said, pushing away the throb of arousal that rolled through her. “Are you planning on stowing that cell phone for the ceremony?”

He glanced at the phone on the table. “Will you take it away from me if I say no?”

Her eyes narrowed, her expression frosty where his was teasing. “If I need to. Confiscating technology is part of the job.”

“Then I guess I’ll turn it off.” He swept the phone up as he walked by her, hesitating only to whisper, “But it would have been more fun if you took it from me.”

Heat shot through her, and she glanced around to see if anyone had just witnessed that exchange. All of the men were fixated on the Dodgers game.

She blew out a long, steady breath. This Chris guy was just messing with her—his own version of a test the way that Dan had challenged her about the Macallan. Nothing more.

Behind her, the bedroom door flew open, and Mark burst out dressed in everything but his tuxedo jacket. “How do I look?” he asked, a mile-wide grin plastered on his face.

“Like a man who’s about to lock himself to a ball and chain,” said Eric with a laugh.

Annie allowed herself the tiniest of eye rolls. “Okay, Mark, time to walk down to the ceremony. This wedding gets going in twenty minutes.”

The groom nodded. “My jacket’s in the bedroom. Hold on.”

He turned back and… Rip!

Everyone froze as the rending of fabric echoed through the room. All of the color drained from Mark’s face. His hand flew to his shoulder, and he pulled at his shirt. “Shitshitshit. Karen’s going to kill me.”

Annie strode across the room, gripped Mark’s shoulder, and spun him around. A three-inch rip gaped at the back of his fine cotton tuxedo shirt.

Fuck.

“How bad is it?” asked the panicking groom as he tried to twist to look.

“Do you have a backup?” she demanded.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Karen doesn’t like it. It doesn’t fit as well.”

Of course it didn’t. She looked at her watch. Nineteen minutes to ceremony. “Take it off.”

The groom and his party all stared at her.

“I have a sewing kit in here,” she explained, fighting to keep the exasperation from her voice. “Take the shirt off, and I’ll sew it back together. But someone’s going to need to iron the backup just in case.”

Mark started to unbutton the torn shirt as she looked around the room at more blank faces. “Not a single one of you can iron?” she asked.

Gary, the New York lawyer, shrugged. “Camilla won’t let me near the iron after I burned a hole in my brand new Brooks Brothers shirt a couple years ago.”

“I can do it.”

Chris stepped forward and unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket, letting it slide down his arms. She was one hundred percent positive that if she peeled his shirt off him she’d find strong, wiry muscle underneath there. Muscle she might have let herself indulge in thinking about if it wasn’t for the clumsiest groom in Hawaii.

“Good,” she said with a sharp nod. At least one of them could fend for themselves. Her mother always said that a real man was one who could cook, clean, and keep a house. A man who was the opposite of her father—often drunk, sometimes incarcerated, and rarely present.

She took Mark’s torn shirt, but not before fixing the other groomsmen with a hard stare. “You will each take a boutonniere. Then you will go to the ceremony location. You will stay at the ceremony location. No detours. No stalling. No more drinks until after the wedding vows are exchanged. Is that clear?”

The men murmured their agreement and shuffled out of the hotel room. She half expected them to hold hands, pairing off into field trip buddies like little kids.

She moved to her kit, a suitcase she’d planted in the room that morning. “Mark, how much have you had to drink today?”

“I had a scotch a couple hours ago,” he said shakily. “I was too amped up for anything else.”

“Good. Pour yourself another—a small one—and watch the game. I’ll be done with this in a moment.”

The groom shot her a grateful look and scuttled over to the couch.

She pointed at Chris. “You come with me.”

She moved fast, ripping the dry-cleaning bag off the backup shirt that hung in the closet and sliding it from its hanger. When she turned back, Chris had the ironing board out and was in the bathroom filling the iron’s water chamber.

They worked in silence for a couple of moments, her repairing the shirt with tiny stitches and him moving methodically to iron the backup crisp and smooth.

“You’re good at that,” she said, tipping her head in his direction.

His crooked smile slid over his face again. “Courtesy of my first job. I did all the grunt work at my stepfather’s restaurant. If I was late or broke a dish, I got stuck ironing napkins. He wanted sharp corners, the same way every single time.”

“Is spending all that time in the restaurant what made you want to be a chef?” She didn’t know why she asked it. After tonight, she wasn’t going to see this guy again, but he was helping her. Asking felt right.

“Mark mentioned that I’m a chef?” he asked, flipping the shirt so he could do the second front panel.

“I have a file on all members of the wedding party.”

His eyes widened. “That’s not sinister at all.”

She shrugged. “During one of the first weddings I ever planned, I didn’t realize that one of the bridesmaids had an ex-husband and an ex-boyfriend in the wedding party. The men started brawling during ‘The Cha Cha Slide.’”

He barked a laugh—a sound as rich as chocolate and just as sinful. “You’re kidding?”

The beginnings of a smile tugged at her lips. “The bridesmaid wound up sobbing into my lap in the bathroom. That’s why I try to find out as much about you guys as I can beforehand.”

“So what else do you know about me?” he asked. The question should have been casual, but the low rumble of his voice made it sound like a promise of so much more.

She squeezed her thighs tight. She was at work. That meant no lusting after guests.

“I know enough about you,” was all she said.

“That’s a cop-out.”

“I’m like the CIA. If I told you what’s in the dossier, I’d have to kill you.”

He put the iron down. “And what’s the CIA’s policy on dancing with a guest? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

Annie nearly jabbed herself in the thumb with the needle. There was no way she was going to dance with this man. She wouldn’t survive the feeling of his body pressed up against hers no matter how much she wanted it.

“Generally the CIA frowns on such activities,” she said stiffly.

“Generally?” The look he sent her might have scorched the panties off her if she hadn’t held herself back. Because she needed to hold back. She could never let herself slip. No matter how much she wanted to.

“Exceptions are made if the man asking is a widower over the age of seventy-five.”

“You’re a tough sell.”

She concentrated on the shirt in her hands. “I’m not looking to buy.”

Oh, but she wanted to. He smelled like he’d just gotten out of the shower, with a hint of salt and masculine spice underneath the soap. Her whole body hummed with awareness, and she couldn’t help but want to know what it would be like to have those full lips on her skin. She had rules, yes, but this man was ice cream on a diet. TV on a school night.

Trouble.

This was getting out of hand. She wasn’t a bridesmaid cliché looking for a wedding fling with one of the groomsmen. She was one of the most in-demand wedding planners in Hawaii, but a long time ago, she’d realized that she needed to be smarter, sharper, better than everyone else. She didn’t have the connections that some planners had. She didn’t have the bred-in taste or knowledge of etiquette of the ones who had old Hawaiian society roots. Instead, she had hard work, grit, and determination. That was how she’d made it this far, and it was how she was going to stay at the top of her game. Men like Chris? They weren’t in her plan. She would not throw herself at a man just because he had some scruff and scars and talked a good game.

After putting in the last stitch on Mark’s shirt, she tied the thread off and snipped it. Barely a seam. “Not too bad.”

Chris turned off the iron and rounded the board. “Let’s see.”

Before she could hand the shirt over, he ran his finger over the thin seam of stitches, pressing the fabric into her open palm. She fought a shiver as he said, “Looks good to me. I think you’ve saved Mark from passing out from stress.”

She scooted along the bed and pushed up to standing a few feet from Chris. “Time to get the groom dressed. Again.”

Chris laughed. “Are you going to use that schoolteacher voice on him?”

“What do you mean?” she asked with a frown.

He closed the gap between them until she had to tilt her chin up to look into those deep blue eyes of his. “You marched those men out of here like they were five. You get shit done, Annie Kalani. I like that.”

Then he took that slow, delicious smile of his and walked straight out of the room.

Again, if you like what you read, you can preorder The Wedding Week:

Amazon: http://amzn.to/1Ov3VvP

Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1WAO7zr

iBooks: http://apple.co/1NvcnAf

Kobo: http://bit.ly/24TSVkY

B&N: http://bit.ly/1TQWsZi

Smashwords: http://bit.ly/1WAOiKY

“The Girls She Left Behind”

I’ve talked before about my love for fashion plates, but sometimes when I’m rooting around in the New York Public Library‘s digital collection I stumble upon something I’ve just got to talk about.

For 10 cents in September of 1919, you could buy a magazine with a pretty remarkable-looking cover. Check it out.

“The Girls She Left Behind Her.” 1919. Courtesy of The New York Public Library Digital Collections.

The cover is entitled “The Girls She Left Behind Her,” and it’s pretty stunning. Not only do we have a young lady in what was traditionally a man’s riding kit — boots, jodhpurs, and all — she’s standing in front of at least six female figures, all dressed in historical garb.

From what I can tell we start with a woman in Elizabethan dress on the far left and progress through the 18th century to the Georgian empire waist dresses all Jane Austen period drama fans know so well. Barely visible in green behind the main figure is what looks like the full bell skirt of a dress spread over a cage crinoline (mid to late 1850s) and then the mutton sleeves of the mid 1890s. Topping it all of with her back turned to us in a stunning pink dress is a woman wearing the fashions of the first decade of the twentieth century.

This is a little early for the extreme changes in fashion that the flappers brought with them, and so the magazine cover is in a way even more remarkable. You can see just how aware the editorial staff of this magazine must have been about the opening up of social conventions regarding dress — and also a woman’s place in society — when the central figure of a fashion plate is wearing trousers. Even more interesting, I don’t read any censure in this drawing. Rather than a fearful cartoon of how society would fall apart just because a woman pulled on a pair of pants, the artist seems to be making a statement: this is how it is.

I won’t go so far as to say this image was intentionally feminist. The illustrator still calls her a girl, and we’ve got to remember that this pretty white woman who represents beauty ideals of the time is meant to move magazines. Besides my old college professors would scold me for not contextualizing what feminism would have meant in 1919 and instead projecting my own modern ideas onto it. Instead I’ll just say that this magazine cover is a fascinating sign of its times.

Now if someone could make me that white skirted riding coat and find me a pair of those boots I’d be a very happy lady.

A Most Fashionable Facebook Group

 

Godey’s Fashions for March 1868 (from the New York Public Library)

Happy Monday everyone! I’m almost one week out from heading on vacation and I’m itching to grab my passports and go, so it’s going to be a short post today.

I wanted to let you know about an incredible and growing group of readers that have joined me on Facebook in the last couple weeks. I started a group called Really Old Frocks that’s all a celebration of everything we love about historical fashion. Historical romance readers are especially welcome, but the group is also for costumers, history nerds, and period movie aficionados who want to gush over the beautiful gowns and accessories we all love!

I’m starting to put together some documents in the file section with recommendations about resources for writers or curious fashion fans, and we’ve got some great themed days like #MovieMonday, #20sTuesday, #RogueFriday, and #SinfulSaturday to look forward to.

So head on over to Really Old Frocks and join our little growing community! I post regularly (even on vacation, I promise), and I’d love it even more if I could see what you guys have got!

Time for a Facebook Party!

Today I’m going to be over at T.J. Kline’s Facebook party at 10:30 p.m. EST helping her celebrate the release of her new book Change of Heart!

Here’s a little peek at her newest book in her Healing Hearts series:

Bad luck has plagued Leah McCarran most of her life, until the tide turns and she lands her new dream job as a therapist at Heart Fire Ranch. But when her car breaks down and she finds herself stranded, the playboy who shows up to her rescue makes Leah wonder if her luck just went from bad to worse.

Gage Granger has risen above the circumstances of his youth, enough that people now believe he has the Midas touch, especially in business. But when one mistake suddenly threatens everything he’s built, he takes some time to visit family near Heart Fire and figure a way out of the mess. The last thing he expects to find is a feisty therapist who needs his help, even if she won’t admit it.

Leah learned a long time ago that other people will always let her down. She doesn’t want that kind of hurt again, but Gage isn’t giving up. And finding out he’s staying next door isn’t going to make it any easier to avoid the kind man who is set on changing her heart.

T.J.’s parties are always a ton of fun (and packed with plenty of giveaways)! All you need to do to get in on the action is RSVP here and then come hang out with your favorite authors from 3-6 PDT.

 

Exploring Victorian Fashion Plates

It’s no surprise that I love libraries. I’m an author, it’s kind of what we do. But my love of the New York Public Library runs deep for a lot more reasons than just accessibility to books.

The NYPL is an incredible resource for writers, especially those of us focusing on historical writing. The digital collection isn’t entirely open (ie there are some resources you can only access while at a library location and with a valid library card), but enough of it that it’s an incredible tool.

One of my favorite places to start rooting around for inspiration while I’m writing books is the digital collection‘s listings of fashion plates. If you’re interested in the history of 19th-century fashion, this is the place for you. Godey’s Lady’s Book and La Mode Illustrée are both well-represented in the collection, and clicking through will give you a pretty good idea of how fashion (especially silhouettes) changed throughout the 1800s.

 

“Costume Parisien.” 1807. Courtesy of the New York Public Library Digital Collections.
London Fashionable Evening & Full Dresses. Courtesy of the New York Public Library Digital Collections.
“An Equestrian Fashion Plate.” 1849. Courtesy of The New York Public Library Digital Collections.
“Toilettes de Mme. Breant-Castel.” 1870 – 1870. Courtesy of The New York Public Library Digital Collections.
“Soirée toilette.” 1883-01. Courtesy of The New York Public Library Digital Collections.
“Spring mantles.” 1883-05. Courtesy of The New York Public Library Digital Collections.
“Blackwell’s Durham Fashion Doll [paper doll with dress]” Courtesy of The New York Public Library Digital Collections.

A Special Treat for Newsletter Subscribers

I’m doing something special as a big thank you to my most dedicated readers. If you sign up for my newsletter, you’re going to get a serialized short story sent straight to your inbox — all for free.

Here’s how it works…

• Sign up here for news and freebies from me: http://eepurl.com/Z83_T

• On the first Monday of the month you’ll get a chapter of my short story The Lady Always Wins. It’s a total rewrite of a Wattpad story I wrote for the XOXOConfessions writing competition last fall, so don’t worry you’ll be getting brand-new story every month. And even better, it’s set in the same world as my new Governess series, so you’ll get some character cameos no one else will know about!

• Here’s a look at what the story’s all about:

Miss Catherine Milford is an unashamed spinster with no intention of living a quiet life of obscurity. Sir Ian Randall is one of London’s most notorious rakes-and bored to tears of the ton. Neither of them are looking for love, but a bet, a ball, a balcony, and a deliciously seductive kiss are all it takes to make them question everything.

• And that’s it! If you miss a month or sign up for my newsletter a little late, you’ll be able to catch up on Wattpad. Here’s the thing to remember, Wattpad’s going to be a month behind because this is a special offer for my newsletter subscribers to get a taste of some sexy, smart historical romance before anyone else.

7 Things I Learned When I Went Through My Old Writing

For the first time since Labor Day, I don’t owe anyone anything. I’ve met all my deadlines, and I’m project-less (at least I am until copyedits come back on two of my books). It’s glorious.

I’ve been taking this rare free time to read, cook, catch up on Outlander, and do some serious spring cleaning. But while I was totally on board with deep cleaning my apartment and sorting clothes for donation, I kept ignoring the big task that’s sat on my to do list for years: cleaning out my box of old writing.

My many-years-neglected bin of ideas.

About seven years ago, when I moved into an apartment with my friend on the Upper East Side, I bought myself a huge plastic filing bin and a bunch of folders. I printed off all the old ideas that had just been sitting on my laptop, and started organizing. I filed away a whole bunch of concepts, character sketches, plot maps, synopses, and in some cases partial manuscripts of up to 45,000 words. Then I never looked at anything in that box again.

I’m sad to say, that box moved with me and has been sitting on top of the cabinets in my studio for five years.I’m not even sure I opened it up to add things. Sunday night, I decided that enough was enough. I had to sort through every piece of paper in there and figure out what to keep and what to toss.

I learned a lot in the two hours it took for me to sort everything in my box. I haven’t had a chance to read everything in it (there’s only so much wine in the world and I can’t drink it all in one nostalgia-laden, cringe-worthy old writing session). I do plan to read everything, however, because among all of the — sometimes very — rough sketches in there are some ideas. Some good ones. Ones that could at some point become books.

So, here’s what I learned when I made myself look at all of the ideas I thought were good enough to write down seven years ago.

Be prepared.

Yeah, you should probably be ready for a few “Why did I write that?” and “Wow, that’s better than I thought” moments, but that’s not what I’m talking about here. To go down nostalgia lane, you need to be properly prepped with tools. I dragged out a trash bag, mixed myself a Negroni, put on Hasley’s BADLANDS, and set to work.

 

Notes upon notes upon notes.

I like organization…and that’s not necessarily a great thing.

The first thing that jumped out at me when I started attacking my mound of paper was that I like organization. Like really like it. My box of concepts was stuffed full of neatly printed, binder clipped paper. Everything was grouped with its appropriate project (some of them have amazing names, but more on that later). Things were split into folders that I’m sure made plenty of sense seven years ago. Everything looked neat.

Same goes with the content of those files. I always thought of myself as a pantser until I buckled down and started writing really serious. Now I will not start a project without at least a synopsis and often a few notes on character, plot, timeline, etc. mostly because I can’t remember the details of what I pitched if it’s not written down. If my agent sells a series, I need to remember months down the line what books two and three are supposed to be about. I thought I’d become a plotter because of professional survival.

I once knew how to read this plotting tool. I now have no clue what I’m looking at.

Turns out, I loved plotting when I was starting out. I had notes. I had deeply detailed character descriptions. I had synopses. I was all over the organization…

…so where are all of the manuscripts that should have come from such excellent plotting?

Some just didn’t work. It happens. Not every idea becomes a book. Some manuscripts can be fixed, but I’ve also written a few that couldn’t.

What concerned me a lot more was that I could see a bad pattern developing in this box. I used plotting as a crutch. If I broke a plot down in every possible way I could think of, I could tell myself that I was still doing work even if I wasn’t producing workable, completed drafts. But look! I had all of this paper. I was working.

Nope. That’s busywork and not productive work.

Breaking out of the habit of constantly researching and making notes is another long blog post, but suffice it to say I did it out of necessity. I made deadlines and forced myself to stick with them. Suddenly I couldn’t spend days ripping apart a manuscript that wasn’t even close to being complete. Making myself put together a manuscript and start submitting it to agents changed a lot of things.

I’m an office supply junkie.

I pulled a lot of binder clips off of duplicate manuscripts. A lot. I have so many hanging and regular folders, I shouldn’t be allowed into a Staples unattended ever. Same goes for stationary stores. How many legal pads does one woman really need?

My sister was a pretty good editor when she was 20. 

It’s generally not good when someone unequivocally hates your main character. It’s generally great when they tell that to your face and don’t let you write a bad book that no agent or editor is going to want to buy because of an odious heroine.

And yes, I did read that the first chapters of that manuscript. My heroine was pretty horrible. My sister will be so pleased to hear me tell her she was right (she’s also now in a publishing grad school program so good call, baby sis).

A lot of it is bad, but it’s still my work and that’s pretty cool.

I wasn’t as embarrassed as I thought I’d be going through this box. I actually kind of wish one of my close friends was with me so we could comb through the pages. I think it would have been fun.

Don’t get me wrong — a lot of what was in this box was bad. Like cringe-worthy bad. But most of it was also straight from brain to paper. It was rougher than a rough draft, and that’s okay. What I had was a box of fresh ideas that I was excited about enough to jot down and store away.

I’m looking forward to going through my box of ideas slowly and seeing what’s in there. Maybe nothing is usable. Maybe something becomes a book or a series. It’s the promise of possibility that’s exciting.

Writing makes you a stronger writer.

Someone I was once close with used to love Malcolm Gladwell and his 10,000 rule. The short version is that Gladwell argues it takes 10,000 of practice to become an expert at something whether it’s hockey, piano, whatever.

While I don’t completely buy into Gladwell’s argument, I do think that consistent, conscious engagement with writing will make you a stronger writer. You’ve got to be open to learning and mentoring and criticism, but if you put in the time consistently your writing will change over time.

This box represents lots of hours and lots of writing. Butt in chair, hands on keyboard writing. Is all of what I wrote in 2008 good? Nooooo. But did I get better? Yes.

When I told my old roommate I was digging through my writing from when we lived together and that some of it was “utterly awful stuff,” she said something really smart:

“We all do this. We all look back on old work and think it’s terrible. It means you’re growing!

And you’ll grow until you stop.”

She’s a pretty brilliant lady.

You’ll find some gems.

If you’re like me, you’ll uncover some gems while digging around in your own box of concepts. I found four rejections from when I submitted a literary short story to a bunch of journals. Those make me laugh now, but the thing that made me happiest was finding an old photo from college. It was taken on move-in day of my freshman year with my roommate who would go on to become one of my two closest girlfriends in college.

So enjoy this photo of me as an 18-year-old with a ribbon belt (thanks, 2004), and I hope you’ll be kind to your past self when you tackle your own spring cleaning.

My Favorite Romance Novels of 2016 (So Far)

Ever have one of those starts to the year where you feel like you’re running and running and never quite catching up? That’s me right now. I’ve been working my butt off getting three books ready for release this fall (as well as a re-release of my novella The Wedding Week in June), and I’ve been working through some special work projects for my day job. I hate falling back on the cliche excuse, but I’ve been busy. Still, I try to make time to read even if it’s not quite as much time as I’d like.

So here’s a highly unscientific list of what I’ve been able to read* and enjoy so far this year:

So Sweet, by Rebekah Weatherspoon

So here’s the deal. I know Rebekah Weatherspoon’s incredibly smart and funny on Twitter, and I was fortunate enough to have been introduced to her at RWA last summer so I got to see all that in person. This means I should have realized her novella So Sweet was going to be just the right sort of funny-sexy-give-me-more-now-damnit but apparently I wasn’t thinking straight because it was reallyfunny-sexy-give-me-more-now-damnit. Now everyone please go buy this book so we can all talk about Kayla and Michael. #okaythanksbye

Amazon | iBooks | Kobo | B&N

 

 

Stay With Me Forever, by Farrah Rochon

I want to apologize. This is the first Farrah Rochon book I’ve read of the several that have been stacking up on my TBR, and I feel like I’ve let all my friends down in not evangalising for her books before this. Stay With Me Forever is sharp and smart and sexy—just the sort of book that reminds me why I fell in love with category romance so many years ago. The hero is delicious, but the tough-but-noble heroine really steals this Louisiana-set book. Also, can I just say that this has nothing to do with the book but isn’t that a gorgeous cover?

Amazon | iBooks | Kobo | B&N

 

 

Rushing to Die, by Lindsay Emory

Margot Blythe’s back for another sorority sisters’ mystery! I was thrilled when Lindsay announced there would be a sequel to her Sisterhood is Deadly and—true to form—I gobbled it up in an afternoon. Fun, funny, and sharp with a sexy police officer to boot, I absolutely love this cosy mystery series and can’t wait to find out what happens next.

Amazon | iBooks | Kobo | B&N

 

 

 

No Good Duke Goes Unpunished, by Sarah Maclean

I’m going to pivot to audiobooks for a moment. I might not have had a huge amount of time to read this winter, but I did have to do some mundane things like commute and cook. Enter audiobooks. This was my first, and for about a week afterward I heard my own revisions in narrator Rosalyn Landor’s delicious voice. I love the Rule of Scoundrels series (the second is still my favorite) and was happily surprised to find listening to the book a delightful experience.

Amazon

The Splendour Falls, by Susanna Kearsley

This book isn’t a romance but what RWA would have called a novel with “strong romantic elements” until they did away with that category at the RITAs (RIP). I picked The Splendour Falls up at an RWA long ago, and it took me until February to finally read it. I’m so happy I did because it fits this lovely subgenre of books about inevitably English women going somewhere charming like France, meeting a bunch of interesting characters, solving a low-stress mystery, and dealing with some link to the past. This is sink into an armchair with a cup of tea reading.

Amazon | Kobo | B&N

*Sadly I can’t talk about a couple really enjoyable RITA judging books I read in February because of contest confidentiality. Maybe one day I’ll be able to innocuously slip them into a roundup and no one will be the wiser.

Meet the Governesses!

I’m thrilled to finally be able to reveal the gorgeous covers for my new Governess Series, coming this fall!

This delightfully charming and saucy historical romance series features three best friends employed as governesses for different families, who all find themselves wanting loves they can’t have.

All of the books are now available for preorder from your favorite ebook retailer.

Elizabeth Porter is quite happy with her position as the governess for two sneaky-yet-sweet girls when she notices that they have a penchant for falling ill and needing the doctor. As the visits from the dashing and handsome Doctor Edward Fellows become more frequent, Elizabeth quickly sees through the lovesick girls’ ruse. Yet even Elizabeth can’t help but notice Edward’s bewitching bedside manner even as she tries to convince herself that someone of her station would not make a suitable wife for a doctor. But one little kiss won’t hurt…

The Governess was Wicked releases September 12, 2016

Amazon | Amazon UK | iBooks | Kobo | B&N

 

 

Mary Woodward is London’s own “fairy godmother,” known for her expertise in transforming awkward, shy girls into marriageable society belles. Her new position teaching the daughter of Eric Bromford, the Earl of Asten, should be just another job — until she meets Lord Asten. He’s just the sort of man to tempt her to break all her rules, and she does just that when she dons a mask and spends a moonlight night in a garden with the earl. Torn between the temptation of passion and the security of her position, Mary must risk it all for love in this retelling of Cinderella that gives the fairy godmother her happily ever after.

The Governess was Wanton releases October 10, 2016

Amazon | Amazon UK | iBooks | Kobo | B&N

 

 

Governesses aren’t supposed to lose their charges, but that’s exactly what happens when Jane Ephram wakes up and realizes that her pupil, Lady Margaret, has eloped from their inn room as they’re traveling. Even worse, Lady Margaret’s taken Sir Nicholas Hollings’s horse, and the disarmingly handsome gentleman is hell-bent on getting the beast back. Racing against time, Jane and Nicholas take to the road again, determined to find the errant Lady Margaret — and maybe even love — along the way.

The Governess was Wild releases November 14, 2016

Amazon | Amazon UK | iBooks | Kobo | B&N

Valentine’s Rewind

 

Thanks for stopping by and celebrating the unofficial holiday of romance novelists — Valentine’s Day. This year, more than 20 authors have joined together for the Valentine’s Rewind blog hop. Today I’m revisiting Chris and Annie, my couple from “The Wedding Week” in One Week in Hawaii. I hope you enjoy!

 

♥♥♥
“A Day All Their Own”

February 13

Annie Kalani stood in her kitchen, coated in flour, and wondered what the hell she’d been thinking. In front of her lay the scraps of her second failed attempt at handmade pasta. The first was half on the floor and half in the brushed stainless steel trashcan that sat to the side of her island.

She pushed a hand through her hair, no doubt leaving streaks of white through her haphazardly pulled back ponytail that was starting to escape its elastic. It had looked so easy when Chris had made her pasta last Valentine’s Day. He’d kneaded the dough with smooth, confident strokes and fed it through the hand-crank machine almost lovingly. Food seemed to come to life in his hands.

The same couldn’t be said for her.

Annie was a competent cook—she’d give herself that much. On nights when Chris worked late at his restaurant and she was too tired to drive down to join him for a meal at one of the tiny back tables, she could whip up something for one with the usual efficiency she employed in the rest of her life.

But apparently she needed more than competence to make what was supposed to be a stunning Valentine’s meal.

Annie braced her hands against the island’s glossed stone countertop. “Okay, you win,” she muttered, admitting defeat. She had a backup plan — steaks grilled on the little barbecue that sat on her balcony — she just hadn’t wanted to use it. But Annie could tell when she’d been beaten.

Her hands were full of broken pasta strands when she hear keys jangling outside her door. Her eyes darted to the clock. How was it ten already?

She dumped the pasta in the trash and brushed her hands off on her apron as best she could as Chris pushed the door open. He hadn’t even crossed the threshold when he stopped, his eyes fixed on her.

She spread her arms wide, more than a little sheepish. “Dinner may be a disaster.”

Without breaking his gaze, he set his keys down in a bowl on the side table and let the messenger bag she knew would be packed with his clothes for the next day fall to the floor. He closed the gap between them in a few steps, and her whole body flushed with warmth. After a year and a half he could still make her blush like a sixteen-year-old girl with a crush.

His hands slid around her waist, and she tilted her chin up to catch his lips. He kissed her like he hadn’t seen her in months, his tongue slipping between her lips. She tasted sweet basil and the sharp tang of vine-ripened tomatoes, the ghosts of the dishes he’d been preparing at the restaurant.

Annie sighed against his chest, the tension in her shoulder relaxing just a little. This was where she wanted to be. Always. This was where she belonged.

“Hi,” he whispered against her lips as he smoothed a lock of her hair back behind her ear.

She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against his. “Hi. How was work?”

“Busy. We’re getting ready for the big day tomorrow.”

They’d long ago reconciled themselves to the fact that theirs was never going to be a conventional Valentine’s Day. Chris was a chef and she was an events planner. Love was good for business, and they’d both be working at least a sixteen-hour day on Valentine’s. He would man the kitchen at the restaurant, and she would be caught up in coordinating a seemingly effortless romantic wedding at one of the island’s resorts a Los Angeles-based couple. If Chris and Annie were lucky, the might stumble into bed at the same time the following night.

That’s why February 13th was their day—a fake Valentine’s that meant so much more because they had it all to themselves.

“So what’s this disaster?” he asked, pulling back to peer over her shoulder.

“Remember that beautiful saffron-infused pasta you made me last year?”

He nodded.

“Apparently I’m not very good at making pasta. It keeps flaking and breaking apart,” she said.

He reached up and brushed a thumb over her tawny beige cheek. “I’ve always liked my women covered in flour.”

She swiped at her cheeks and her forehead. “Damn, I thought it was just in my hair.”

He laughed. “Babe, it’s everywhere.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Are you hungry yet?” he asked.

“I’m not starving yet, but I could get steaks going if you are.”

“And give up on this? Not a chance. We’ll need to let the dough rest, but if you don’t mind a midnight dinner—”

She laced her fingers through his. “I’m not tired.”

“Come on.” He tugged her by the hand toward the island. “Let’s do this together.”

Chris reached for the oversized mason jar of flour Annie kept on the counter and began mounding flour in front of them. “How about beating a few eggs?”

She nodded and pulled three eggs out of the refrigerator, cracked them into a bowl, and whipped a fork through them until they were a uniform golden yellow. Then she handed him the bowl and watched as he poured the eggs into a well he’d made in the flour. Keeping one hand clean, he mixed and gradually pulled more and more flour into the eggs until the dough formed.

“Could you take over kneading for a minute?” he asked, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “I’m just going to change my shirt. I smell like a kitchen.”

She raised an eyebrow. “If you think you can trust me not to destroy the pasta.”

He brushed his lips against her cheek as he switched spots with her. “Always.”

She focused on kneading, enjoying the slightly giddy sensation of happiness that had wrapped itself around her. The dough was already silky to the touch, the apartment smelled like cooking and food and home, and Chris was here with her. It was enough.

Annie was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn’t realize he was behind her until his arms circled her waist. Instinctively, she let her head fall back to his shoulder as he dropped a kiss to her collarbone.

“You’re good at that,” he said with a nod to the pasta dough in her hands.

“Now you’re just flattering me because it’s almost Valentine’s Day.”

A laugh rumbled through his chest.

“Besides, do you know how much pressure it is cooking for a chef?”

“Even in your own kitchen?” he asked.

“It’s easier here than at your place,” she admitted. “At least I don’t feel like I’m invading your space.”

His left hand stroked down over the soft cotton of her top and along the side of her stomach, just glancing over the hem. “What if your space was my space?”

Her hands paused. “What do you mean?”

He held up his right hand and uncurled his fingers. Two brass keys hung from a simple silver key ring. Her stomach jumped to her throat in anticipation.

“So I’ve been thinking—”

“You’re asking me to move in with you?” she asked in a rush, spinning in his arms and planting two doughy hands on the front of his shirt. He didn’t seem to care.

“I know we haven’t talked about it much, but I have a patron at the restaurant who’s a real estate agent. He’s been keeping an eye out on the market for me and took me around to see this place before prep today.” He let out a breath and shook his head. “Annie, it’s amazing but if you don’t like it we can have him keep looking. That is, if you want to live together.”

She looked from him to the keys and back again. Her new business, his restaurant, their growing relationship — things had been going so well for the last eighteen months that she hadn’t wanted to disturb their flow. But now Chris was standing before her with keys in his hand. Moving in with him would be a huge leap of faith but, in some ways, hadn’t they already done that? She’d given up the security of her wedding coordinator job at the Kuhio Resort & Spa and he’d walked away the opportunity to man a five-star restaurant at the same hotel. In some ways, they’d committed to one another before they’d even said “I love you.”

“Where is this dream apartment?” she asked.

“Kolohala Street.”

Her brows shot up. Kolohala Street ran through the heart of Waialae Kahala — an affluent neighborhood of older Hawaiian homes and newly built beachfront mansions. It was the sort of place where people put down roots. Where people started families and carved out lives together.

“Really? A rental in Waialae Kahala?” she asked.

Chris cleared his throat. “It might be a rent-to-buy property.”

“Is that right?”

He shot her a sheepish grin. “And I should probably warn you, it’s actually a dream house and not a dream apartment.”

“And when do we have to let your friend know?” she asked, inwardly smiling at how much he was trying to reign in his enthusiasm and failing.

“We have the keys until Monday. I figured since both of us will be off, we could drive over in the morning.”

It was all so simple. So straightforward. She could imagine them driving up, looking at the house, and just knowing. There would be paperwork and budgeting and all of the complications that came along with moving, but in some ways none of that mattered. She was already sure of one thing: Chris.

“Well then,” she said with a smile, “it looks like we’ve got a hot date to see a house.”

“Really?” he asked, practically vibrating with excitement.

She looped an arm around his neck and brought him down to her. “I’d be happy to move in with you, Chris Benson.”

He grinned a little wider. “This dough has to rest for at least an hour. Want to go makeout?”

She brushed her lips to his. “I think we can get a whole lot more creative with an entire hour ahead of us. Besides, it’s Valentine’s Day.”

♥♥♥
Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed revisiting Chris and Annie, failed pasta making and all! The next stop on the hop is the wonderful Rebekah Weatherspoon. Be sure to comment on each story to be eligible for the massive giveaway at the end. Thanks for joining us for #ValentinesRewind! ♥

Tagged: One Week in Hawaii, One Week in Love, romance novel, short story, Valentine's Day