Birthing a Book: An Author's Postpartum Reflections....

Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ~Elizabeth Stone


The day I brought my newborn daughter home from the hospital wasn’t like the television and magazine ads where beaming parents climb out of a car, sunny smiles on their faces, holding a pink or blue bundle. Oh, I held a pink bundle alright. And I wanted to smile, I really did, but I was terrified. I’d just left a beautiful nine-month journey—dreams of frills and pink lace, baby showers, attention from friends and family, a wonderful birth experience—and stepped right into the big middle of motherhood.


Oh, yes, I was happy. I’d brought a beautiful baby girl into the world. I was a parent. I’d dreamed and planned for this day. But, the moment I stepped across the threshold into my own home—far from the pampering security of the hospital where I merely admired and held my child while nurses actually tended her—I was ONE MY OWN.


I made a bee-line to the sofa, my daughter in my arms, and sank into the cushions, then sat there for a long time…frozen. Scared. Wondering what the hell do I do now?


Sure, I figured it all out in time. I did pretty well as a parent, and have a lovely, well-adjusted daughter to show for it.


What does this have to do with writing? I would never have dreamed it WOULD have anything to do with my writing journey; but every day I’m learning that it has everything to do with being an author.


On March 2, I gave birth to another child. A book.


Just as the glorious time leading up to the arrival of my daughter, I reveled in the splendor of the pre-published process—winning the contract, edits, approving the cover art, the galley print and…finally…the RELEASE. The birth of the baby.


Who knew? It’s happening again—sitting on the proverbial couch of fear with my newborn baby. Because now, just like with my daughter’s arrival, the exquisite preparation and the joy of birth are over. And, just like the real kid, I’ve found I have the same parental concerns with…yes, a book!


You know about post-partum blues? Well, who knew there could be such a thing as post-publishing blues. That’s what I’m going to call it.


Damn! Here I am again, with the same parenting concerns. I’m staring around, scared, blank, asking what the hell do I do now?


When my daughter was in high school, there was the debate over whether she should try out for cheerleading. And now, here I am, weighing the pros and cons of cheering on my book through promo. Go, book, go! Ra-ra-ra—siss-boom-ba! Do I promo? How MUCH promo? I still haven’t found the answer to that question. Some moms were really good cheerleader moms. I wasn’t. Some authors are natural-born promo-ers. I’m not. I’m bumbling with promoting my book, and the process frightens me. I’m out of my element. I suppose I thought it would be like a bird, I could let it go and it would fly on its own. Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t.


On the subject of promoting, I’d babbled to some author friends about my failure to elbow my way into a loop chat, what a disappointing experience it had been. I’d been told it was a good way to gain exposure for my novella, so I felt the need to put myself through this torture in order to promote my book. Upon complaining that forcing myself on others was not my cup of tea, one of my friends advised me to do what was comfortable for ME, to promo in my own way. And, again, here was a flashback to motherhood—remembering that much of parenting is feeling your way around for what works with YOUR child.


The old motherly fear—will my kid fit in? Will other kids like him?—is no different with a book. If you have children, do you remember what you told them when you had that discussion? I do. Some may like you, some may not. And you can’t take it personally if they don’t.


To carry it a step further: will my kid be popular? Maybe. Maybe not. Again, I have to fall back on my child-rearing experience for THAT question. In following my own advice to my child, I won’t push to be popular. I’m not a rock star. I’m an author. I’m selling a book, not myself. If it’s ME I’m pitching, then why put any effort into my writing? My dazzling personality will sell the book, right? Wrong. The bottom line: I want my WRITING to count, I want my WRITING to be what a reader enjoys, what they remember.


I was blessed with the friendship of other experienced parents when I became a mother. I’m not sure how I would have survived the parenting game without their support and advice. I listened to all of them. Same with being an author. I’ve had the honor of having a host of supportive friends in the writing business. They are generous with their tips and suggestions. I listen to them all. Some of the tips I use, some I don’t. But I listen and absorb it all. It’s valuable education, and it’s free.


Last but not least, one of the biggest similarities between being published and being a parent is this: My first book, like my first child, will be the one I learn the most from, simply because it’s MY first step into publishing parenthood. I’ll learn from subsequent books. I’ll continue to learn as long as I write; but that first time will have been the orientation to the process. It will always be the most special because it WAS the first. I’ll be no less overjoyed with the next book and the next, but this baby will always hold that special spot in my heart. The characters will always be my precious first babies.


Like a mom feverishly taking pictures of her kid on prom night, I open the publisher’s page, or the Amazon page, and look at my child, I admire the cover, still revel that this is MY offspring going out into the world. His first date, if you will.


Just like that half-thrilled, half-scared mom on prom night, I find myself ‘waiting up’ to see if my child makes it out into the world safely, wondering if my book will fly or not.


No matter how much I cheer him on or worry over him, one thing—just as a real child’s debut into the big world—he’s on his own, and he’s really not mine anymore. But if I put all the love I had into him, if I wrote him to the best of my ability, he’ll be whatever he was meant to be, and he’ll be okay.

...Just to Be Sure of You...

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh!" he whispered. "Yes, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you." ~A.A. Milne


I’m dedicating my blog today to a person who’s become such a part of my everyday life that I fear I’ve taken her for granted. She’s become a constant in my world, and I’ve come to see her as a fixture in my daily life as much as the clothes I wear and the food I eat; and, just as clothing and food, she’s just as necessary. Just like those staples, I’m not sure I could do without her.


For a writing term, I’ll call her my crit partner. For a personal term, a more endearing one, I’ll call her my friend. Her name is Sarah.


Once, a couple of years ago, on a writing forum, I put out a request for a person to read my manuscript and offer feedback. I’d never ‘met’ Sarah before, but she posted and offered to read. And we’ve been together ever since.


Sarah is not the only one who helps me with my writing. But, bless her heart, she IS the one I run to when my feelings get hurt out there in the cyber world. She IS there—now that my book is released—to listen as I angst over reviews that are surely just around the corner. She IS there when I throw tantrums—and, oh do I EVER throw tantrums—about things that irritate me. She IS there when I brag about myself, and she does NOT come up with smart remarks to knock my ego down a billion notches when I do slip up and boast.


I’ve run Sarah through the proverbial wringer. I’ve bitched, complained, whined, criticized, pouted, shouted, preened, bragged.

 I’ve worn her out with constant revisions to my WIPs. She knows no chapter is final when I send it to her. She knows there will be one, or two, or a hundred follow-up emails, prefaced by an apology, with a change to the manuscript. I’m sure it wears her out, but she doesn’t complain, just gladly reviews each and every change. All this while she is trying to write and promo her own works.


I do not mean to slight others who help me. It’s just that a bond has developed between Sarah and me over the time I’ve known her, and we’ve come to rely on each other in our writing journeys. And when I say ‘rely’, sometimes it’s nothing more than just knowing the other is out there in cyberspace when we sit down to write at night. We LOVE writing ‘together’.


She knows this silly little truth, but I’ll share it with you. I have trouble writing when I know she’s not around. Told you it was silly. But she’s an anchor, and I somehow feel adrift in writing waters if she’s not just an email away.


So, sure, maybe I need therapy. Maybe Sarah IS my therapy. She might as well be. I go to her, like I said, as my sounding board.


I feel as though I use and abuse her good nature. If I DO, she doesn’t slap me upside the head for it, but just remains there, true and steadfast.


Oh, the time she probably screams silently, You BITCH! Because, oh, boy, can I ever BE a royal bitch. But I’ve never heard her say it. I’ve never felt it in her ‘voice’. She’s a hell of a lot more resilient and patient than I ever dreamed of being.


And we DO fight. I figure, if we were in person during our bouts—as we are both very feisty, outspoken females—we’d literally pull hair and claw at eyes. But that’s one of the things, oddly enough, that I cherish about her. The only other person I have this sort of relationship with—the kind where you can fight like cats and dogs and continue to care and respect each other afterward—is my sister.


I crit for Sarah as well, and I use the term ‘crit’ very loosely. She’s incredibly talented and doesn’t really need my feedback, but she graciously allows my input anyway.


On the release of Candy G. my very first published novella, Sarah was as much—if not more—excited than me. She cheered me on during the book’s conception until its birth, and is my biggest fan. On the day of my release, which happened to coincide very closely with my birthday, she sent a bouquet of beautiful, sunny daisies to my office. I’m looking at them now. Talk about a touching moment.


And while I’m embarrassing Sarah, let me also introduce you to her two books, Down in Flames and Run to You, both available from Noble Romance Publishing. I had the pleasure of ‘critting’ these two wonderful works, and heartily recommend them for wonderful romance reads. Check them out here and get to know what a wonderful writer Sarah Balance is.


Well, have I mortified you enough, Sarah? What an awful way to pay you back for being a rock for me. But I mean it from the bottom of my heart when I say you are a dear friend and a priceless jewel in my writing treasure chest.


Here’s to you! Thanks and I love you, lady!

A Ship in the Harbor...

A ship in harbor is safe - but that is not what ships are for.  ~John A. Shedd, Salt from My Attic

It’s here. Now. The eve of my first book’s release. Yes, tomorrow, March 2, my book, Candy G, will be released.

There are so many emotions on the rampage in my gut. Primarily, excitement. Of course, excitement. I’m published! My book has the coolest cover! 

The process has been a fabulous roller coaster of giddy thrills that began with finishing the book, writing the end, submitting it to the publisher, being offered a contract. In time came edits, the cover approval, the galley proof (oh, the galley proof, the first real look at your soon-to-be-born baby), and then…and then…the release. All these things I’d heard other authors discuss, and I longed for my turn. And the experience has been every bit as joyful as I imagined. No, it’s been better than I imagined.

The other emotion? The emotion I didn’t expect? Fear. Of what? This is my dream. What’s there to dread?

Well, it was all fun and sunshine and lollipops until this countdown on the eve of release. Until now, my baby, my creation, my Candy G, had just been locked in my heart, embraced only by me and a critique partner and the handful who helped me. My baby didn’t have to learn to fly, he was safe in the nest with Mommy. 

But, as of the clang of midnight, my precious boy is going public, he’s no longer mine exclusively. He’s going to be pushed off the comfortable precipice where he’s lounged since I started writing him, and he’s really no longer mine.

Whether he flies or hits bottom like ol’ Wyle E. Coyote—you know…when he plunges to the ground below in a cloud of dust…a quiet poof?—remains to be seen. It’s all in the hands of the future now. And that realization is sobering. 

But should I have never submitted Candy G because I was afraid? No. I feared rejection, but submitted anyway. I fear a new kind of rejection now, as any author would. But do I wish I hadn’t begun this journey? No. I’m glad I did. If this book does a Wyle E. Coyote and hits the canyon bottom, I’ll write another book. And I’ll submit it. And another, and another until some publisher begs me, Please, for God’s sake, Stop!

I could write book after book and stay safe, never submitting them, like the quote above says—staying within the safety of the harbor. But, like John Shedd also said, that’s not what ships are for. And the realization that I DID sail my ship, I left the safe harbor and took a chance…well, it’s probably the most exhilarating part of this entire journey.

I Now Pronounce You Man and....

Who would give a law to lovers? Love is unto itself a higher law. ~Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy, A.D. 524

Over the years, I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut on so many subjects. Not because I have no opinions on them, or that I have no feelings about them, but because I’m a poor ‘speaker’. Sometimes I dare to voice my thoughts on an issue, only to embarrass myself with my bumbling sentiment that seems to form itself in my head in one shape, only to spill from my lips in quite another, more twisted form.


Recently on an authors’ loop, the subject of same-sex marriage surfaced. I listened and listened, and felt the need to comment, to rise up in support of what I think is a social injustice. I DID speak up, but I wasn’t sure the sentiment that issued from my brain made any sense to anyone else.


That frustrated me. This emotion roiling in my head, no way to voice it adequately, not even in the written word.


But someone else—quite unwittingly—painted EXACTLY the picture I wanted to convey, simply by his random comments about his personal life—the LOVE of his personal life, to be precise.


I won’t divulge his name. But I WILL tell you that he talks often of his long-time lover, his husband, and that every time he mentions him, my heart hurts—literally hurts, but in a beautiful way—to hear the passion in his ‘voice’ for this man.


The funny part? He says very little, actually. It’s not his words that strike such a chord in my heart, it’s the depth of love in his tone. It rings so loud and crystal-clear, so deep, so true, so lovely.


I’d be one to say that marriage would not be my cup of tea; but, when I hear this man talk of his husband, I very much think how marriage WOULD be a blessed union if I were lucky enough to find a man who loved me as much as this man loves his husband.


It’s achingly beautiful, it’s poignant, it’s poetry, it’s Shakespeare, E.E. Cummings and The Song of David all mixed into one luscious melody of passion and care.


I’m not fooled for a minute into thinking this man and his husband don’t experience the same angst and marital trials that all couple face. I’m sure he does. But, even within the limited bounds of my knowledge of him, I know—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that he and his love see it through, they tough it out together. I just know they do.


If marriage could be like that? Oh, yes, oh, yes, sign me up for holy matrimony! IF, I say IF it can be like that.


The sad thing? According to this fellow author, his marriage is not legal in his state. So, in the eyes of the law, he is not really married.


Go figure.


A man and his lover who share more genuine passion, more true companionship, than most straight couples I know, and THEY aren’t considered ‘marriageable’ in their state. That’s a tragedy. A true tragedy.


When he writes tidbits about his lover, I soak up his words and roll in them like a cat in warm grass. They’re that full of love and devotion.


So, although I can’t verbalize my feelings very well, not in a strong political voice, I can at least use this man as an example to express MY confusion and frustration about a law that would prohibit him from marrying his lover.


My wish to you, this man with the beautiful heart who deserves the same privilege in the law’s eyes as any other couple—hell, maybe even more so—I wish I had the power to change the public eye for you. And for others in your situation. I can’t single-handedly, but I can at least use my lame voice.


Wishing you an eternity of happiness to you and your partner. Your husband.

Tess Mackall's New Release at Ellora's Cave...Twelve Days of Love...

Tess Mackall is a tough writing teacher--especially when it comes to 'showing, not telling' and as much bang for the buck, emotion-wise, in stories. Well, let me tell you. Tess practices what she teaches, and is a talented writer herself who DOES punch emotion and vivid color into her work.

Today marks the release of her new book at Ellora’s Cave, Twelve Days of Love. And, to celebrate this release, I want to dedicate my blog to this book.

Check it out!

Eden Riley left her high school geek days far behind. Or so she thought. But when she returns to her hometown and comes face to face with the local heartthrob, sparks ignite like a chemistry set on crack. Super-smooth Nick Lancaster sets her nerves jangling and thrusts her libido into overdrive. But can the former geeky girl overcome her insecurities and jump his sexy bones?

Nothing suits former jock and debate team star Nick more than sparring with the one-time nerd. He’s just itching to get up close and personal with her high-velocity curves and tangle with her on the nearest bed.

With Valentine’s Day fast approaching, all bets are off when Cupid draws back his bow and Nick has only twelve days to convince Eden she belongs with him, in his heart and in his bed.

EXCERPT:

Jingling bells mounted above the flower shop door alerted Eden that a customer had entered the store. She pushed the stem of a pink sweetheart rose into the small wedding bouquet she had just started and wiped her hands on her green wraparound smock. As she turned, she caught a man’s reflection in the glass doors of the refrigerated case.

She couldn’t help but pause and stare. His tall, lean silhouette appeared to be standing there among all those leggy gladiolas and giant spider mums perched in their vases. He reached up to the service counter with one hand and touched the small African violet sitting near the edge. For a moment it looked as though he’d brushed his hand over the big snowy-white spider mum in the cooler.

Eden moaned slightly, his touch so obviously tender. Warm tendrils of longing tiptoed over her skin. She shuddered with the sensation, mentally chiding herself for giving him even a second thought, much less allowing him to affect her physically.

But Nick Lancaster had always worked his way under her skin, even in high school.

He was wet panties and get-naked-quick in one fine-looking package. Bottled sin. A walking aphrodisiac. And all that with just a “hello”. Why did she torture herself with this insane crush? She wasn’t exactly his type, was she? Eden patted her tummy to remind herself of the paunch that sometimes forced her to unbutton her jeans after she’d eaten. Yeah, it hadn’t disappeared, still there.

Nick tilted his head to the side as if to peek into the back of the shop where she stood watching, his mirrored reflection in the glass doors so damn lifelike she took a step back. An exaggerated sigh blew through the workroom’s open doorway, a sure-fire sign his patience had grown thin. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and glanced up at the ceiling.

Eden squared her shoulders, inhaled a deep, cleansing breath and stepped into the showroom. Both Nick’s eyebrows quirked when she appeared and he grinned. She nodded, smiled and planted herself on the opposite side of the counter. He looked too damn delicious today in his dark green Polo shirt and navy blazer. Why did he have to be so handsome?

“Hi, Nick. I might have known I’d be seeing you. The countdown has begun, hasn’t it?”

A distinct V formed between his brows, his grin fading into a frown. “Countdown?”

“Yeah, countdown.” Eden gestured toward the large, heart-shaped day calendar on the wall behind her.

Emblazoned in sparkling gold against the bright red background over the heart’s two humps were the words “Valentine’s Day Countdown”. The number twelve was displayed in bright red and centered inside a pale blue and white wisp of a cloud with Cupid sitting on top, his bow drawn.

Nick focused over her head. “Oh!” Then he frowned even harder. “Well, what was that crack about ’might have known I’d be seeing you’ all about?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

He pursed his luscious lips and squinted his gorgeous green eyes. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

“Where the hell did you get that idea?”

It never failed. Every time he came into the shop, they ended up arguing. She always managed to make some snarky comment, and of course, he picked up on it. They’d been at odds since their freshman year of high school. Both had joined the debate team and had never seen eye-to-eye on a single subject.

Slowly but surely they’d gravitated to different ends of the spectrum in popularity too, which hadn’t made things any easier. He, with his Adonis good looks and nothing-but-net shooting ability, naturally floated to the top; she, with her wide hips, pimply face, geeky glasses and penchant for all things artistic, sank to the bottom.

Now here they were, all these years later, no further from that high-school type of relationship than when they’d started. Except Nick had taken over his father’s string of Chevy dealerships and she had moved back home last year, forsaking her managerial position at an up-and-coming art gallery in New York to take over her ailing mother’s flower shop.

Times and situations changed but evidently people didn’t.

“If you don’t want me as a customer, Eden, why don’t you just say so?” He leaned forward, folding his arms over one another on the counter’s faux granite surface, watching her intently.

Lemon drops. He always smelled of lemon drops—and some expensive cologne she couldn’t remember the name of. God, she wanted to reach over and ruffle that thick, wavy black hair of his. Oh shit. Wet panties alert! He managed to do it to her every time without even trying.

And oh how she wished he would. Fat chance.

“I do want you as a customer,” she said succinctly, trying to put an end to the verbal scuffle.

“So? What was that crack all about?”

“Nothing. Just pointing out the countdown is all. I’m a florist. Valentine’s Day is important to me.” Actually, her remark had been a direct jibe regarding his frequent flower-buying miles. He constantly had arrangements delivered locally and wired over a three-state area with each card signed, “Yours, Nick”.

“Your mother is a florist. You’re a stand-in.” He grinned, wet his index finger with his tongue and painted the air with an imaginary mark. “Score one for me.”

Her mouth dropped open. She had a damned art degree in her back pocket. He, on the other hand, had dropped out of college after year two thanks to a bum knee and the fact he’d no longer be able to pump up his already over-inflated ego with the roar of the fans. How dare he call her a stand-in!

“I’ll have you know that I started working in this shop when I was twelve years old. Every day after school, weekends, all summer long too. I’m the one who made those sweet little corsages for all your high-school dance dates. So don’t say I’m not up to the job.”

He jabbed the rigid fingers of his left hand into his right palm—time out. “Chill, girl. Damn. You’re gonna pop a blood vessel one of these days.” He shook his head. “I was joking, messing with you. But I really meant that as soon as your mother was feeling better, you’re gonna be out of here and back to that fancy New York art career of yours.”

Did she detect a note of jealousy? Impossible. Nick Lancaster had it all. Well, except for his divorce, that is. Her mother had told her all about it right after Eden had taken over the shop. Nick had shown up on Eden’s third day to place an order and their customary enmity from high school had picked up right where it had left off.

Eden had related the entire scene to her mother at home that night and was shocked to learn that Nick and his wife, Jenna, had called it quits. He’d caught her dead-to-rights with her masseuse.

The vision of Jenna’s toothy white smile, platinum pony-tail and deep cleavage bouncing up and down right along with the whimsical sashay of blue-and-white pompoms rollicked in Eden’s mind. The cheerleader prom queen sure had screwed up her life. How the hell could she ever want anyone but Nick?

Eden tucked her fingernails into her palms and squeezed, jolting herself back to the present. Who was she to talk? Her judgment where love was concerned wasn’t so great either.

She picked up the order book and scratched out Nick’s name on the appropriate line. “I won’t be going back to New York.”

“What do you mean?” He leaned in closer.

The lemony scent became downright heady. Have mercy. Her nipples poked at her thin cotton sports bra. Tingles of lust wound their way straight to her pussy. Maybe she should start keeping a supply of clean panties on hand.

He rapped his knuckles on the counter. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes.”

“You looked like you spaced out for a few seconds.”

“Just thinking. Now what would you like to order today?”

He shook his head. “Not so fast. Why aren’t you going back to New York?”

“Mom’s not going to be able to return to work. She’s now on dialysis.”

He glanced down at the floor then back up at her. His usually devilish eyes had softened. “I’m sorry to hear that, Eden. Your mom is a nice lady. I hope her condition improves.”

Eden averted her gaze. He was being nice. And Nick Lancaster’s “nice” wasn’t something she could take. As long as he played the fool with her, she could handle him, but this side? No.

She pressed the pen against the paper. “Thank you. So how many dozen roses? One for each of the Twelve Days of Love? A dozen different women or just one special lady this time?”

He choked with laughter, sputtering, “The Twelve Days of Love?”

She rolled her eyes. “Florist marketing. If you can have the Twelve Days of Christmas, why not the Twelve—”

“Days of Love,” he finished in a sarcastic tone.

Eden perched her hand on her hip and stared at him.

He licked his lips. Lusty butterflies fluttered in her lower abdomen, sending a delicious pleasure-pain to body parts she didn’t even know she had. Her stomach somersaulted. She wondered what it would feel like to kiss him. Damn. She had to stop doing this. They didn’t even like each other. She wasn’t his type—no pompoms. He’d laugh his ass off if he knew how I felt. As long as she didn’t see him, she was fine. But if she had to talk to him, be near him…

He came around to her side of the counter. “How long have we been rubbing each other the wrong way?”

Eden skirted past him and walked over to the display window. She twisted a pot of heavily leaved philodendron so its back side faced the sun. “Forever. I’ve got a wedding tomorrow, Nick. I hate to rush you, but…”

When she turned from the window, he was standing in front of her almost nose to nose. She stumbled backward and he caught her, resting his hand at her waist. He stared into her eyes. How had she failed to notice those little gold flecks swimming in the dark green depths of his? His breath soughed warm over her face—more lemon drops and something else—his unique male scent.

And his hand—was it on fire? He took it away and the temperature of her skin where he’d been touching her plummeted.

“What will you be doing that night?” he asked.

“Wh-what night?” Surprised she’d found her voice, she hurried back to the counter and picked up the order book again.

“Valentine’s.”

“Oh.” She shook her head. “I’ll be lucky to get out of here by nine. And love will be the last thing on my mind, I can assure you.”

“No date, huh?”

“I don’t have time for dating. Can we do the order?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets before he moved back over to the counter. “So you didn’t leave any broken hearts in New York?”

Where the hell is he going with this? And why?

“I’m not exactly every man’s idea of the perfect date. Now if you don’t mind—”

“What’s a man’s idea of a perfect date?”

Exasperated, she blew out a burst of air. “I don’t know and don’t care. I have more important things to do these days than worry about the likes and dislikes of men.”

“What’s more important than love? You’re the florist.” He pointed to the Twelve Days of Love calendar.

“Exactly what is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re willing to sell the product of love but you don’t believe in it.”

“And you’re driving a Mercedes but you sell Chevys.”

Nick propped his hip against the counter, grinning. “Nobody’s ever challenged me the way you do, you know that?”

“Nobody’s ever pissed me off the way you do. You know that?”

His expression sobered. He looked wounded. “I don’t mean to.”

Deep down she knew that. Guilt crested inside her. “I guess we’re just oil and water, Nick. No harm done.”

An awkward silence rose between them. They just stood there staring at each other until Eden couldn’t take it another second.

“You still want to place the order?”

“Yeah,” he said, soft and low, in an almost-defeated manner.

A few minutes later, Nick had placed an order for roses to be delivered on Valentine’s Day to seventeen different women. With every name and address he read to her from his BlackBerry, Eden jabbed the paper a little harder with the pen. Her stomach churned at the thought of all those women. In her mind, she pictured them with pom poms, blonde hair and long, tanned legs.

And they giggled.

Yep, she was definitely wasting panty moisture on thoughts of Nick. Her five-foot-four, big-hipped frame capped off by average-sized breasts would never stand a chance against all those big-busted beauties. Even her soot-black hair was a sharp contrast to what Nick wanted.

“All right. I think I’ve got everything. I have your credit card on file. How about the card? The usual ‘Yours, Nick’?”

“Yeah.”

He sounded dejected. She would too if she’d just spent seventy bucks a pop on seventeen different women. No. That wasn’t it. Nick had money. Apparently their antagonistic relationship had gone a bit too far today.

Maybe this was his last order. How would she feel if that was the case?

“Thanks, Eden.” Nick headed for the door, stopped short just as he reached it, waited the space of a few seconds, then opened it. The bells jingled. He continued to stand there with his back to her. A car alarm blared out in the street. He closed the door and marched back to the counter.

Eden just knew he was going to cancel the order and that would be the end of Nick and her silly schoolgirl crush. Head held high, she braced herself for whatever he was about to say.

“I think it’s a case of practicing what you preach,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re right. I should drive a Chevy and you should believe in love.” His shoulders relaxed and he let out a long breath as if he’d been holding in what he’d said. And now that he’d spit it out, he seemed relieved.

“We’re back to that?”

“Yes, and I think we should do something about this,” he twirled his finger in front of him, “this oil-and-vinegar thing we have going on.”

“Water. Oil and water. You mean try to get along?”

“Whatever. And exactly. After all, it’s that time of year. The Twelve Days of Love.”

She smiled. “Okay, Nick. I’ll try if you will.”

Maybe they could get along. Of course, it wouldn’t help the physical side of things as far as she was concerned. But he didn’t come into the shop more than a couple of times a month. It might be nice not to feel so angry and wet when he left the next time.

“Good. I’ll pick you up at your mother’s house at seven.” He strode toward the door.

It was as if the floor fell out from under her. She grabbed the countertop. Blood rushed to her head and her heart drummed so loudly she thought surely the vibrations would bring the roof down on top of her.

“What!”

Nick spun on his heel. “Seven o’clock. Jeans will be fine. Twelve days, Eden. Twelve days of practicing what you preach. I’ll be driving a Chevy when I pick you up too.” He yanked the door open so the bells jingled, grinned, offered her a little salute and closed the door behind him.

Buy Link: http://www.jasminejade.com/p-9071-twelve-days-of-love.aspx

You can find Tess at: http://tessmackall.com/

And…Risqué Newsletter: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/risquenewsletter

'Candy G'....

My m/m novel, Candy G., is now on the ‘Coming Soon’ list with Dreamspinner Press. Next to the thrill of receiving the contract from the publisher, I think this has been the next-most-exciting milestone of my writing journey. To see my baby, my novella, on the publisher’s site with the cover and blurb. I still sort of get teary-eyed just thinking about it.

 So, without further fanfare, let me introduce you to my boy, my Candy G, who will be released on March 2.

Candelario Gonzalez is an alpha male on the outside, dubbed Mas Chingon (the Baddest) by the community—in the beginning, because he was the exclusive legal counsel for San Antonio’s most powerful drug lord, then later he retains the formidable title and reputation when he risks his own life to walk away from the corruption.


On the inside, though? Candy is a softy, a hopeless romantic who’s been raised in a culture steeped in old-world Latino customs, romance and superstition. Underneath the Mas Chingon persona, he’s gentle and sensual, but has a fiery dual side—moody, possessive of those he loves.


Candy’s been drawn from real-life Hispanic men who’ve crossed my life’s path—men who’ve made an impact on the romantic woman in me, who’ve added their own individual spice to my memories.


So, that being said, here’s a blurb for Candy G., and an expert.


Blurb:

What kind of man drives a bulletproof Mercedes and carries a high-powered pistol in the glove compartment along with his boyhood teddy bear? Candy G does, that's who. Once the exclusive attorney for the most powerful drug lord in San Antonio, he turned his back on Teirso Flores and walked away. But at what price?


Moving on with his life despite the threat of Teirso’s revenge, Candy meets gorgeous, street-wise Carlos Alvarez, and thus begins a passionate love affair rife with secrets, danger and specters from the past that just won’t let go. When truths are revealed, will the one thing that brought their worlds together be the test that strengthens their love or the knife that severs their bond forever?


And an Excerpt:
(Warning: Language)

 Even amidst the crowded nightlife on the riverwalk, people trained admiring gazes on Carlos. How could they not? Clad—much dressier than usual—in white linen pants and a black silk shirt that highlighted his glistening platinum hair, he was stunning. In a rare act of grudging capitulation, only to make me happy, he’d allowed me to buy the outfit, and I’d chosen well.


His extraordinary appearance combined with the romantic atmosphere—twinkling lights and mariachi music wafting on the gentle evening breeze—brought a swell to my chest, not to mention my cock. I, like the admiring passersby, couldn’t take my eyes from him. My Carlos, an elegant, dark panther prowling the San Antonio night scene.


The last time I’d been to the riverwalk had been with Jorge. Remembering that had been the night Carlos returned to my life, the date that marked this anniversary, the thought sparked an inward grin. Maybe Jesse was right. Maybe it was silly to celebrate the occasion. I didn’t care. I was happy.


The waiter seated us near the river’s edge, and Carlos eased into his chair, carefully placing a Walmart sack he’d been carrying on the table. He stared dreamily into the reflection of hundreds of lights dancing off the gently moving water.


I stared at Carlos.


Sensing he was being watched, he raised his gaze to me. He should have been used to my admiring him, but he blushed anyway. “You’re making me self-conscious. You know I don’t like dressing up.”


My fingers toyed along the thin line of grout between the tabletop tiles. “I’m sorry. You look very good, chico.”


He tugged at the cuff of the shirt. “All dolled up, I feel so—”


“It pleases me.” The sincerity, the pleasure in my voice surprised me. “You’re so beautiful. My heart is happy tonight, bebé.”


Apparently it touched him. A tender smile filled his eyes, and he rested his elbows on the table, propping his chin on clasped hands. “You look pretty fucking good yourself, Candy.”


“Thank you.”


“You draw so much attention wherever you go.” He glanced around the busy sidewalk, the restaurant’s multicolored lights sparkling in his dark eyes. Returning his focus to me, he said, “That makes me proud.”


“If anybody’s looking, it’s at you, mi amor.”


“Sure. Whatever.” He blushed again.


Leaning forward, I murmured, “Can you not see how beautiful you are?” Every detail of his face, his body, which I’d memorized since I’d first seen him, sent wonderful palpitations to my heart and warmth to my groin. “All day, every day, all I can see, whether you’re with me or not, is your face in my mind. And then all I can think of is touching you, making love to you. Me vuelves loco. You make me crazy.”


The smoldering brown gaze pierced me, roamed every inch of my face. “How crazy?”


Burning up under the intensity of his stare, I pulled back in the chair. “Crazy enough to think about forgetting dinner and… well…. There’s all the time in the world.”


Excitement flashed in his eyes, and he picked up the sack. “I have something for you.” He slid his hand into the bag and pulled out a CD. Holding it to his lips for a moment, he handed it to me, and the happiness in his face, so simple and boyish, melted my heart.


La Paloma. He’d bought a new La Paloma CD. Love swept through me, bringing tears to my eyes.


“Bebé.” My fingers lovingly brushed over the case. “Thank you, mi querido. After my baby-ass tantrum, breaking the other one, I don’t deserve this.”


Tucking his chin, he winked over the rim of his glass. “No, you don’t.” He paused as the waitress placed menus in our hands.


The very pretty girl, her hands clasped behind her back, rested a genial—though somewhat coy—smile on Carlos and asked what we wanted to drink. I told her two Coronas. Nodding and throwing another bold, appreciative glance at my lover, the young lady thanked us and sauntered away.


Carlos hadn’t seemed to notice the flirty employee. He picked up the conversation where he’d left off. “Like I said, you don’t deserve a new CD. But you’re the only man who’s ever played music for me when he fucked me.”


I laughed hard. “Ah, chico, I think you’re trying to be romantic. But you make me sound very pathetic.” Funny thing, though. Carlos, in sharp contrast to his streetwise persona, was the most romantic man I’d ever known. His drawings, his poetic talk, just his pure sensuality. Everything about him painted a picture of beauty, idyllic eroticism.


Fire blazed behind his wide eyes, and he lurched to touch my hand. “No. No. I… I love that you play your… song for me.”


“Thank you, then, bebé, for La Paloma.” I laid the CD on the table. “I can play it every night for you now,” I playfully threatened.


His tongue swiped, languorous, seductive, across his bottom lip. “And that means you have to fuck me every night.”


The little tease. The silky touch of his finger sent pleasure coursing through my veins like a powerful opiate. “You think you can stand being fucked every night, chico?”


A brow shot up. “I’d give it my best shot.”


The cute waitress returned to place our beers on the table and take our orders. At the sight of Carlos’s hand on mine, the sex in both our eyes, she cooled considerably as she listened to our selections. When she headed back to the interior of the restaurant, I sucked in a deep breath and pulled the jeweler’s box from my pocket.


“I have something for you, chico.” Reaching across the table, I handed the box to him. How clumsy I felt. Romance ruled my heart but never showed itself very well in my actions. I felt I was too old-world for a contemporary man such as Carlos. Just as his fingers touched the lid to open it, I blurted, “You’ll probably laugh, Carlos. It’s… it’s…. You might think it’s silly.”


Upon opening the box, his hand shot to his chest, and he swallowed hard. “Candy….”


“It is silly, isn’t it?”


“Oh, no, no.” His mouth gaped open, and he brushed a hand through his hair. Shaking his head slowly, he whispered, “It’s… it’s… a dove. It’s the most—”


“Listen, you don’t have to—”


Carlos bounded from his chair and cornered the table so fast I didn’t have time to react. With his arms wrapped around my neck, he pulled me close, and I breathed in his spicy, earthy scent.


“You like it, then?” I wanted to cry, I was so happy that he was pleased.


Pulling back, his arms still circling my neck, he sighed. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life, Candy.” His voice, so low, caressing, whispered close to my ear, “I love you so fucking much, Candelario Gonzalez. I love you so goddamn much.”


The sidewalk was crowded with customers, and they surely gawked at us, but I didn’t care. Love for Carlos gushed from my heart, and all I wanted to do, needed to do, was hold him, touch his lips. Although the thoughts that swirled in my soul were passionate and lyrical, the words that spilled from my mouth were idiotic. “So I don’t need to take it back? Well, it was custom made, and—”


“I love it, cariño.” Oblivious to curious gazes, he pressed his lips, which tasted of salty tears, to mine. “I love it so much.” He straightened and leaned back against the table.


“Then you’ll wear it for me tonight?” I rested my hand on his waist.


“I’ll wear it for you tonight.” Hunger darkened his eyes, softened his voice. “Let’s eat fast, then, so we can—”


“Nah, chico.”


“No?” He cocked his head to the side.


“Nah. I reserved a room at Mansion Del Rio.”


Excitement sparked in his eyes. “Ah.”


My sexual juices were stirring, my cock swelling, at the vision of making love to Carlos high above the river with the nightlife pulsing below us. “Would you like that?”


Squinting, he eyed me. “Can I order a banana split from room service in the middle of the night?”


How could he turn even the word banana split into an aphrodisiac? Dios, how my dick ached.


“You can order anything you want in the middle of the night.”


“Can I order you to fuck me in the middle of the night?”


“You can.” Resisting the urge to pull him onto my lap, I growled, “But by the middle of the night, mi amor, you may be begging me to stop fucking you.”


For a moment our gazes locked, and we said nothing, fucking each other with our gazes. As though coming out of a trance, he lowered to his haunches, resting his hand on the table to steady himself. “Put it in now.”


“Put… what… in now?” My mind lagged behind his, still writhing with him on an imaginary bed.


“The earring.” He reached to remove a silver stud from his earlobe. “I want you to put it on me.” Laying the discarded earring on the table, he snorted. “Sort of like getting engaged.”


“Getting engaged, eh?” I pulled the diamond dove out of the box, removed the back from the post, and bent to insert the earring. Each time I touched Carlos was like the first time, and the light stubble on his cheek, his smooth skin against my fingers, sent shivers through me. “You realize, bebé, in my old-fashioned world, that means I own you.”


As I put the earring on his lobe, he nuzzled into my hand and purred, “You already own me, Más Chingon.” His hand covered mine.