Day #8 of the No Social Media Month experiment.

Today’s muse: Beneath the Patchwork Moon giveaway

Against the wall behind the dog are envelopes stuffed with copies of Beneath the Patchwork Moon. Leave a comment if you’d like one (I’ll advertise this widely next week) and I’ll start sending them out after the book is turned in.

The grandboy flies home on Tuesday morning so I’ve already accepted that Monday (I’m writing this with my coffee) is most likely going to be a bust on the writing front. Need to enjoy my last day with him (and I did!).

Monday turned out about as I anticipated: 58064. The next seven days are going to be timed writing bursts. Twenty or so minutes at a time I’m going to knock out the rest of this book because THANKS TO THE HUSBAND, I now have the plot/backstory issue that has been plaguing me solved, woot! And he found a way to make it relevant to some events of the last several years, and if I could be more vague, I would, ha! Anyhow, I’m excited to get this book done because I LOVE it. Honestly. I do. Here’s the opening:

Inked script at his nape. Colored sleeves beneath his rolled cuffs. Elaborate artwork in his oxford’s open collar. Her imagination wandered to his back and his chest, to his shoulders. His biceps. His abs. The tattoos were symbolic, not simply cosmetic, and part of the biker culture, leaving her to wonder how important to his life the club had been before he’d walked away.

Tats intrigued her—the creativity, the significance, the commitment—even when the man wearing the ink was her student’s father and off-limits. This particular man also wore, not a beard, but an unkempt scruff framing a devilish smile. His hair was long, pulled back in a disheveled sort of knot. It had her thinking of Heathcliff, tortured and haunted and wild on the moors.

Had her, too, wanting to rescue him.

Hands curled over the edge of her desk at her hips, Brooklyn Harvey looked out at her class of kindergartners. The fifteen five- and six-year-olds sat on the floor in a semicircle, their rapt attention on Callum Drake. Rather than using the full-size chair she’d offered him, he’d lowered his six-foot-plus frame into one of those from the pint-sized collage table. Watching him fold himself to sit had been as breathtaking as watching him walk through the door.