I just returned from a fantastic beach trip with my mother and older sons. We went to Gulf Shores, Alabama. Lounged on the beach, read, swam, fished, ate yummy seafood, and… that’s pretty much it. It was awesome.
My beach book was J.K. Rowling’s The Casual Vacancy.
I enjoyed it, but sort of wish I’d been warned about it. You can read my Goodreads review of it here. Honestly, I was sort of surprised it had so many negative reviews. If you’re on Goodreads as well, I’d love to be friends with you.
I was delighted that Female First U.K. not only featured an interview with me, but also published an excerpt of Curse of the Tiger. Sweet!
I’m still waiting to hear from Toby or Blake about Hell of a Shot, my first venture into songwriting. You can take a listen to my country song here – sung by our talented friend, Chris Morris, and produced by my fabulous husband in his studio. And if you’ve got any advice about how to get my song to the ears of music producers, by all means let me know!
My husband and I are leaving in just a couple of hours to spend a weekend in Nashville with friends. Some pool time, some lake time, and a lot of lounging are in store. Yessssss. I hope you have a fabulous weekend lined up as well. If you’re in need of a steamy weekend read, may I suggest May Day, my contemporary romance published by Ellora’s Cave? Mix one part cougar with one part contractor, add some class disparity for flavor, several generous portions of erotic bliss, and mix well. Mmmm – yummy!
Here’s a tidbit to whet your appetite – enjoy ~
*****
From May Day ~
I’m at the Natchez house again after waking at the crack of dawn and hightailing back here. I’ve got to get Rick’s stuff dealt with and I’m not up for seeing Carter right now. Maybe it’s too soon for me to date.
Except it sure didn’t seem too soon to have Sam’s hands on me, bending me over through the fence.
Anyway, it feels good to be here. It’s just after noon, and I’ve already gone through the linen closets to pack up sheets and towels to offer to Henrietta. I’ve also filled a box with Rick’s personal knick-knacks and trophies and framed certificates. I can’t decide whether to ship those to his mother, throw them away or stow them in the attic to gather dust.
I blend up a yogurt and berry smoothie for lunch and manage to spatter some on my shirt as I pour it, but I don’t bother changing. Nobody’s here to see it and be offended. I settle into my front porch swing to drink it. It’s nice out here, with everything blooming and the birds singing and the Spanish moss floating in the trees. It’s quieter than Baton Rouge, with no traffic to speak of. I’ve got on no makeup and am wearing slouchy gym shorts and a t-shirt, but I don’t have to worry that anyone from one of my charity committees will pop over and make me feel sloppy. I finish my shake, rest my head on one of the swing cushions, and wonder what kind of bird it is that’s warbling to me from the magnolia tree. A chickadee, perhaps? It’s so cheerful and light, as sweet as the scent of the jessamine blooms on my pergola.
“Knock, knock,” a deep voice calls out from front walk. I sit up, startled, and look for an identifying car in the drive. Please let it not be Carter’s Jaguar. Whew, no Jag, but there is a battered pickup truck and tall, beefy man with a huge bouquet of daisies.
Sam.
I consider making a break for it, but he’s seen me. My heart is pounding and my throat is suddenly as dry as a Ritz cracker. I look down and wince at my food-crusted t-shirt. Damn.
“Marcy?” he calls over. “It’s Sam.”
Of course it is. Should I tell him to go away, or should I invite him in? What must he think of me, anyway? I stand up and smooth my dirty t-shirt.
He walks to the bottom of my front porch steps and says, “Hi.” He looks so cute—almost goofy, really—standing there with a bunch of wildflowers in his fist. He’s got on a polo shirt and jeans, and his hair is damp as though he’s just showered. I catch the scent of his aftershave. It’s herbal and fresh, like nothing I recognize. “I picked some flowers for you at my place,” he says.
I try to keep a straight face, but I can’t manage it. He’s just so adorable, all muscled and hopeful and gussied-up. “They’re really pretty,” I tell him, grinning. “I love daisies.”
He smiles at me—his eyes are the soft blue color of his jeans—and hands them up to me. “They’re not as pretty as you are,” he says. “Nothing could be.”
It’s a pick-up line, I know, and it’s not fair that Carter’s line about my talents bugged me while Sam’s is making me glow, but there it is. I feel this warmth start in my chest and spread and I want to giggle like a teenager, all because this guy thinks I’m pretty.
I grip the daisies’ stems and grin like a loon. I should be embarrassed that I can’t stop smiling at him, but he’s smiling right back at me.
“Come on up, Sam.”
He takes my free hand and kisses me on the knuckles. “I was wondering if you were free this afternoon,” he says. “I’d like to take you on a date. My friend is going to meet me at my place and we’re going to go riding next to the creek.”
“Riding?” I ask. My cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling at him, but I can’t seem to stop. This is ridiculous. “Like, on horses?”
“Sure,” he says. “It’ll be fun. My buddy owns the land next to mine and he raises horses. We have a nice trail that loops through both of our properties. It’s a nice day for it. You know, if you didn’t have plans already.”
“I haven’t ridden in a long time,” I confess. “Not since I was a little girl.”
“Nothing to it. These horses are gentle and slow, and they’ve seen everything. They don’t get spooked,” he says. “You want to wear long pants and boots, though, so the insides of your legs don’t get chafed.” He looks down at the short shorts I’m wearing and swallows, a trace of a blush colors his cheeks.
Bebe Balocca 
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