I really should blog more often, shouldn't I? I'm blaming it on the end of school -- May is crazy, y'all. And we made a flying trip -- like sixteen hours of driving in two days -- to see Child #2. I had not seen him in a month, and before that, it had been three months since I'd seem him. This mama's heart was jonesing to hug that sweet boy. 

I am trying to write a book. I swear I am. It's just slow going right now. You can check out an excerpt from my WIP Here With Me below and there's another except over at my Facebook author page. 

And I'll try to be better about that whole blogging thing. 

***

​Music and scrumptious aromas spilled from the Cannon as they approached, and patrons already filled the sidewalk tables. Fran and Chelsea went ahead to see about a table for them. Forearm braced on the open door, Blake gazed down at Britt. “If my being here is a problem, I can take off. All you have to do is say the word.”
And let him know how his presence discombobulated her? As if.
“No, it’s fine.” With a slightly scornful laugh, she brushed her long bangs behind her ear. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
He looked at her for a long moment, then shrugged, shoulders moving under the fine cotton of his pale blue shirt. “How’s Emma?”
“She’s good.” She latched onto the safe change of topic. “Growing like a weed and reading up a storm.”
He looked as if he wanted to say something, and she hurried to forestall him. Lord in heaven, she did not need him asking how she was. “She loves the books you sent her for her birthday.”
“I’m glad.” He threaded his fingers through his hair, dark strands falling across his forehead. “Her thank-you note was cute.”
“Good, because getting her to write one just about takes an Act of Congress.” She relaxed a little. Fran and Chelsea hurried toward them, and their presence would keep the conversation from going anywhere too personal.
She hoped, anyway.
“Tables are all full.” Chelsea spread her fingers wide and jerked her head toward the bar area. “But we snagged a booth by the bar.”
The booth turned out to be a small one, and Fran and Chelsea squeezed in on one bench, leaving her to share with Blake.
Lord, really?
Her stomach in knots, she slid in as far to the wall as she could, but even so, his thigh pressed along hers, his warmth infiltrated her side, and help her, she could smell him, soap and starch and male.
Fingers shaking, she knotted her hands together in her lap. Delayed punishment for long-ago sins. Had to be.
The server had left them only a pair of menus, and once he flipped theirs open, he shifted sideways and laid his arm along the back of the seat. She darted a look at him, and he grimaced. “Easier for you to see?”
“Yes, thanks.” Now he basically enveloped her. Nothing on that menu mattered because no way would she be able to eat. He flipped the menu page, the light glinting off the scarred silver oval attached to the battered leather strip around his right wrist, and his biceps brushed her shoulder. Something tiny and almost painful fluttered low in her belly.
Desire. She hadn’t felt it in forever, but she remembered what it was. He was close to her, their legs touching right above the knee, and she wanted him.
No.
Nausea pushed up in her chest, and she swallowed hard. She grabbed her bag and nudged him toward the aisle. “You know, I’m going to go wash my hands.”
He moved immediately, all good manners as always. Even so, he was still too close as she exited the booth. She tried not to look desperate as she smiled at Fran. “Order me a small pizza. I don’t care what kind. Surprise me. Be right back.”
She had to cross the lobby and the other dining room to reach the ladies room. Tears scraped at her eyes and blurred her vision. In the restroom, she locked herself in a stall and leaned against the door. She blinked hard and pressed her fingertips against her eyelids.
She was not going to cry. She wasn’t. She wouldn’t cry and she wouldn’t remember.

Gone From Me releases today! RT called it "a slow burn . . . and deeply emotional."

Their life was a fairy tale—until it all came tumbling down.
Hearts of the South, Book 10

Georgia Bureau of Investigation agent Amy Bennett isn’t sure when her own Prince Charming went AWOL from their marriage, but she’s certain of one thing. She wants him back. She and Rob had it all: law-enforcement careers they loved and each other. Yet somehow he’s wound up sleeping on the couch and emotionally beyond her reach.

Rob is trying to put the pieces back together, but battling his own demons while starting over in a small-town sheriff’s department is pushing him—and his marriage—to the breaking point.

His very first missing person’s case threatens to end anything but happily ever after for the families involved. Then a young man goes missing too, and the pressure has Rob reaching for the nearest lifeline. The one that’s dangling by the barest of threads—his wife.

And though Amy’s grip is strong, her love may not be enough to keep Rob from slipping away.

​Warning: Contains a husband who’s holding too much in, and a wife who’ll do anything to get him to let go, even meet him halfway on their last piece of common ground—in bed. Also: cop bonding between cops who talk like cops.

Available at the following retailers:

Amazon
 
http://www.amazon.com/Gone-From-Me-Hearts-South-ebook/dp/B0185HZOXM
 
Barnes & Noble
 
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/gone-from-me-linda-winfree/1122965911;jsessionid=BAB3546E8EA5C279C1CFCD6141092BCB.prodny_store02-atgap03?ean=9781619234581
 
Kobo
 
https://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/ebook/gone-from-me
 
Google Play
 
https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Linda_Winfree_Gone_From_Me?id=vorwCgAAQBAJ
 
Samhain Publishing
 
https://www.samhainpublishing.com/book/5790/gone-from-me
 
iBooks/iTunes
 
https://itunes.apple.com/nz/book/gone-from-me/id1059981460?mt=11

More backlist excerpt fun! This is actually all of chapter one. Enjoy!

Before she can build a future, she must dig up the bones of her past…
Uncovered

A Hearts of the South story.
After nearly twenty years, her career in possible ruins, homicide detective Madeline Holton returns to her hometown for a temporary stint working with the local sheriff’s department. The demons of her teen years lie in wait, rising once more in the form of a cold case she must solve. And when it comes to a handsome farmer who’s making good on her family’s former land, she can’t seem to keep her foot out of her mouth—or her hands off him.
Agricultural businessman Ash Hardison won’t lie to himself—despite Madeline’s obvious issues, he’s more drawn to her than any woman he’s ever known. He’s already laid the ghosts of his past to rest, and he’s determined to help Madeline purge hers. Whether she likes it or not.
Because he knows it’s the only way they have a chance to forge a future together.

***
She didn’t want to go in there.
Madeline Holton paused on the top step before the Chandler County Sheriff’s Department, a wicked roll of nerves trembling through her. Going in meant admitting there was no going back, meant facing how far she’d fallen. A piss-ant backwoods department in Middle of Nowhere, Georgia. A pity job extended only because the sheriff was her brother-in-law. God, how had she come to this, anyway?
She really didn’t want to acknowledge the answer.
With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and reached for the door. She wasn’t Virgil Holton’s daughter for nothing.
Inside, the sharp smell of dust burning off heating coils assaulted her, blending with a fierce odor of stale coffee. The desk officer, phone pressed to his ear, nodded and held up a finger in a silent plea for patience. She tapped a nail on the scarred wooden counter and surveyed the lobby.
The place hadn’t changed much since her teen years. A new front door, a fresh coat of paint on the walls, and wax on the industrial tile floors couldn’t make the ramshackle concrete-block building more than it was. Like putting red lipstick and cheap perfume on a cheaper whore. Just like she was fairly certain positioning a new sheriff at the helm didn’t make it a clean, honorable department.
“May I help you?” The desk jockey graced her with a smile so earnest it hurt.
She straightened her shoulders again. “I’m Madeline Holton. I have an appointment with Sheriff Reed.”
Recognition bloomed on his face. “Yes, ma’am. He’s in his office, said to send you back when you arrived. Down the hall, through the squad room on your left. Can’t miss his office.”
The sense of déjà vu deepened as she walked along the narrow corridor. At sixteen, she’d had to call her daddy to come get her from this very station, after she’d wrecked her mama’s car. The one she hadn’t been given permission to drive. Even now, the memory of his anger made her cringe. Lord help her, she’d never been able to make the old man happy, even when she hadn’t been screwing up.
The hallway opened on one side into a grim squad room with mismatched furniture. Someone had painted and waxed here, too, trying to make improvements, but it hadn’t worked. Across the space, a door stood partially ajar, a six-pointed star stenciled on its frosted glass insert. Yep, couldn’t miss that, could she? Male voices, lifted in irritation, drifted out.
“Are you still pissed?” Heavy exasperation coated Stanton Reed’s tone. “Get over it, Tick.”
“Hell yeah, I’m still pissed.” Tick Calvert. Madeline closed her eyes, any good feelings she had at all about this situation drying up like a pond during a record drought. “You made a personnel decision without consulting me.”
“You’d have said no.” Stanton’s rough exhale dripped with frustration. “We need another investigator, Tick. Cut me some slack here. She’s experienced, you’ve been on sick leave, Chris didn’t want to take on a permanent investigations position and it’s too much for Cookie to handle alone.”
“Bull. I’ve been back full-time over a month now. You can’t use that as an excuse. Admit you did an end-run around me, even if it’s only to yourself.”
“We need her.”
“We might need another investigator, but we don’t need her. She’s trouble, Stan, with a capital T. Just wait.”
Madeline sucked in a harsh breath. Why was she surprised? She’d harbored no illusions that Tick Calvert would be happy to see her, let alone work with her. At least she knew what she was walking into. She stepped forward and rapped on the door.
“It’s open.” At Stanton’s rumble, she pushed the slab inward and entered the office. Discomfort flashed over her brother-in-law’s face. Tick’s dark gaze lifted to hers and he grimaced before looking away. Stanton rose. “Madeline, have a seat.”
She didn’t miss the way Tick, Mr. Southern Raised-Right Manners, failed to rise at her entrance. Yes, working here was going to be fun.
Once she’d taken one of the two worn leather chairs before Stanton’s desk, he settled into his chair again. “We were just talking about your taking this position. I know you’re looking at it as a temp job, but I have to tell you, it’ll help us out while you’re here.”
At least one member of her family got it. Her mother, Pollyanna-delusional as always, still believed Madeline was home for good, and her sister Autry wanted to indulge in some sisterly bonding kick that involved helping Madeline find a local rental house.
As if she’d be here long-term. Madeline restrained herself from rolling her eyes. No, she was around long enough to begin rebuilding her reputation as a cop, to control the damage from that mess in Jacksonville… Then she was off to a real department in a real city, if the J-ville PD wouldn’t take her back. No way was the Chandler County Sheriff’s Department, with its history of small-town corruption and male chauvinism, her permanent professional home.
“Let me tell you what I had in mind…”
She listened as Stanton outlined her duties and the plan for her interim employment. Although she didn’t look straight at him, she remained aware Tick watched her with ill-tempered resignation and a cynical twist to his mouth. She stiffened her spine. Fine by her. She wasn’t any happier about working with him.
“I’ve got a county commission meeting at ten. Tick will show you around, assign you a unit, make sure you have everything you need.” Stanton rose and offered her a hand, his big palm and long fingers engulfing hers. She relaxed a little under his rare, genuine smile. In any case he seemed willing to give her a legitimate chance to redeem herself.
Tick unfolded himself as Stanton left them alone. He gestured toward the squad room and ushered her through the door. “Come on.”
Let’s get this over with.
The rest of the statement hung in the air.
Madeline cast a surreptitious glance at him. He’d aged well, maturity sharpening the lines of his face, with no silver in his black hair yet, and if pressed, she’d admit he was even better looking as a man in his late thirties than he’d been as a brash nineteen-year-old boy. She dropped her gaze to his mouth, remembering the one and only time she’d kissed him, remembering everything that had happened afterward, and revulsion shivered through her.
Jesus, she wasn’t going to make it through this.
“Well?” Irritable, he stood in the middle of the dingy squad room, exasperation darkening his expression. “Holy hell, Madeline, does everything have to be difficult with you?”
Swallowing a retort, she pinned a smartass smirk on her face. “Just waiting for the royal tour, Calvert.”
With tight gestures, he pointed out aspects of the area: officer mailboxes, supplies, time clock, baskets for filing reports.
“Yours while you’re here.” He indicated a scarred metal desk, painted a grim pea green. It fronted an identical piece of furniture. Tick jerked his chin toward it. “Cookie’s. He’s off until Thursday. He’s taking the evening shift after that so you can start on days.”
Something ugly and a lot like disdain lurked in his words. Madeline bristled. “I suppose you think I should be on nights and I’m getting special treatment because Stanton’s married to my sister.”
Tick grunted. “I think Stan’s the only reason you’ve got a job here at all.”
He continued the department walk-through, showing her the conference room, and downstairs, the jail facilities—or lack thereof, she thought—the employee locker and break rooms, the dispatch office.
The place left a lot to be desired, and she couldn’t help comparing it to the sleek modern station she’d worked in during her time in Jacksonville. Again, the sense of loss threatened to swamp her. God, she’d really messed things up.
Upstairs, he pushed open the door to his own office, a room small enough to have been a closet at one time. He dropped into his chair and reached for a leather-bound planner, the fluorescent light glinting off his wide platinum wedding band. “Have a seat and let’s take a look at your training schedule.”
She remained on her feet, arms crossed over her chest. “I’ve been in this as long as you have, remember? I don’t need ‘training’.”
His head jerked up, the line of his mouth rigid. “You need to understand how this department works. I’d say that was part of ‘training’, wouldn’t you? Now sit down.”
She waited a second before complying, just so he’d understand she did things on her time schedule, not at his command.
With an audible breath, he dropped his gaze to the binder. She flicked a look around the room. Where Stanton’s office had been spartan, with only a handful of photos on his shelf and some law enforcement certificates and awards on the walls, Tick’s pulsed with his personality. His FBI award shared space with a mounted big mouth bass. An ancient and worn Bible leaned on a shelf next to a variety of training manuals. Snapshots of his family—sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, his mother—filled any bare areas. More frames took up the corner of his desk, a wedding photo, a casual shot of him and his wife, images of their infant son, all big dark eyes and black hair.
Being here, in this space, looking at the cheerful normalcy of his life, made her edgy. His happiness sparked a long-buried resentment in her. Obviously, he was none the worse for what had happened between them so long ago. His whole life hadn’t gone to hell. Why had hers?
Awareness pricked its way down her nape and along her spine. She looked up to catch him watching her with hard eyes. A hot flush ran under her skin, the embarrassment only feeding her anger.
“All right.” He scanned the pages before him. “I’ll run you through the patrol routes this afternoon. Roger can probably review the dispatch protocol with you in the morning. I’ll be your ride-along the next couple of days, and we can turn you loose Thursday. That’ll give you Friday through Sunday off, then Monday you can start the three-two-three-two rotation. That work for you—”
The phone at his elbow jangled and he reached for it without excusing himself. “Calvert.” He listened, frowning, then lifted his gaze to Madeline’s, a mocking twist to his mouth. “Right. Got it covered.”
He replaced the receiver and leaned back, still watching her with an expression that sent nerves jangling under her skin. “Well, Holton, you said you didn’t need training. Think you’re ready to handle a run on your own?”
What could this county throw at her that she couldn’t possibly handle? “Sure.”
He scrawled directions on a notepad, tore a sheet free and thrust it at her. “The diner’s delivery van is down. Prisoner meals need to be picked up and brought back here before noon. Tell Roger in dispatch to give you the keys to unit C-4. It’ll be yours for the duration.”
A lunch run? He was sending her on a goddamn prisoner lunch run. She stared at the paper trembling in her hand and slowly raised her gaze to his. The asshole. He regarded her with silent, enigmatic challenge. He thought she’d refuse, pitch a fit, make a scene. Jacksonville would see twelve inches of snow before she gave him the satisfaction, even if telling him to shove the duty was her first overriding instinct.
“C-4, you said?” She folded the directions into a neat square and tucked it in her pocket. “I’ll be back.”
Unit C-4 turned out to be a relatively new, immaculately maintained, unmarked Crown Victoria. This was familiar, sliding behind the wheel, the smooth power of a police package beneath her, the muted crackle of radio traffic filling her being.
God, she’d missed this, hadn’t realized how much until now.
The diner wasn’t difficult to find and wasn’t far from the department, either. Within walking distance. Frowning, Madeline parked in the alley beside the historic brick building. Why hadn’t Calvert sent her on foot?
She found the answer inside as the bubbly fresh-out-of-high-school cashier loaded take-out plate after take-out plate in two large cardboard boxes. An unwilling spurt of humor tugged at Madeline’s lips. At least Calvert hadn’t been a big enough ass to send her after this on foot.
Or maybe it simply hadn’t occurred to him.
She juggled one of the awkward boxes into her arms and glared at the second. “I’ll be back for that one.”
Trying to keep her hands from slipping off, she shoved the door open with one hip and stepped onto the sidewalk. The damn carton was heavier than it looked, and it was farther to the car than she liked. Plus, she’d locked the unit. Her keys were in her pocket; she’d have to set the box down to dig them out.
“Hey, let me help you with that.” A smooth drawl filled her ears seconds before strong hands lifted the box easily from her precarious hold.
“Thanks.” She rubbed her tingling palms down her hips before tugging the keys from her pocket. She looked up at her rescuer. He was tall, his body tight with the muscles that came from good old-fashioned hard work. He balanced the box easily on one hip. Sunlight glinted off sandy-blond hair, lightened here and there by long hours outside. A denim jacket covered an untucked T-shirt. His faded blue jeans, a hole worn in one pocket, were as disreputable as his scuffed work boots.
Standard farmer attire.
Too bad she’d sworn off farmboys long ago. This one was cute, with a great smile and the prettiest pale green eyes she’d ever seen, glowing in a tanned face, thin lines spreading out beneath long lashes.
He was checking her out, too, his sea-colored gaze roaming from her hair, to her face, over her body and back up to her eyes. He grinned, white teeth flashing against his golden skin. “You’re new here.”
New? Madeline swallowed a laugh. If he only knew. She wasn’t going to explain her convoluted past to a man she’d probably never see again, though. She pointed toward the police car. “I’m parked over here.”
He settled the box on the stainless steel backseat and straightened. “Is that all?”
She wavered for a half second. “Actually, there’s one more, if you don’t mind…”
“I don’t.” The great smile lit his face again. “Or I wouldn’t have asked.” He tucked his hands in his pockets as they walked back to the diner. “Good thing I decided to call in a lunch order today, huh?”
She reached for the door and held it. “What do you mean?”
“Might have missed meeting you.”
A laugh bubbled in her throat, and she smothered it. The last thing she wanted was a man in her life, and if she was in the market for one, it would be the kind she’d always dated: smooth, polished, interested in sex and no strings.
Not the farmer-type she’d grown up with.
Not even one with a killer body and drop-dead eyes.
He hefted the second box with the same ease and economy of movement. Outside at the car, he tilted his chin toward it. “So you’re with the sheriff’s department.”
“Temporarily.”
He tucked his thumbs in his back pockets, the line of his body relaxed. “Maybe I’ll see you around then.”
Not likely, but she smiled anyway. “Maybe.”
He nodded. “You have a good day, now.”
Slipping behind the wheel, she watched him amble toward the diner. My, my, he had a nice ass, and the old jeans highlighted it to perfection. Shaking off the purely feminine musings, she shifted into gear and drove back to the station. Any pleasant feelings engendered by the interlude with the good-looking farmer sputtered out as soon as she returned to the sheriff’s department. She pulled in and parked beneath the spreading oak trees. The awkward angle of the back door made wrangling the large boxes free difficult. Two deputies exiting the rear entrance came her way.
“Let us get those.” The taller of the two spoke first, his voice quiet, his icy blue eyes holding no expression. “I hate when the diner uses these huge-ass boxes. Makes it hard as hell to get them out of the car. Here, Troy Lee.”
He passed the carton off to the younger man, who regarded Madeline with blatant curiosity. God help her. There was one in every bunch. She stared him down. The first deputy straightened, balancing the box on his hip much as the farmer had earlier. Sunlight filtering through the leaves glimmered over his nametag: C. Parker.
Troy Lee slanted an inquisitive glance in her direction as they walked toward the building. “You’re the new investigator?”
People around here truly had no life if they noticed every new face. Guess some things never changed. She nodded. “That would be me.”
A third deputy swung the door open for them from inside. “Hey, Troy Lee, Calvert’s looking for you. What did you do this time?”
“Hell if I know. He’s been pissy lately.” Troy Lee shoved the carton onto the counter inside the door. “Man, he’s a prick when he’s not getting laid.”
He trudged up the stairs. Parker began setting meals on the counter. “I have this, Investigator, if there’s something else you need to do.”
Other than pull her eyelashes out one-by-one because she was stuck working here? Couldn’t think of a thing.
Waving an envelope, Troy Lee bounded back down the steps. Parker grinned. “That was fast.”
“My training certificate from Tifton is in.”
Parker started another row of plates. “Take back what you said about him?”
“No. He’s still a prick when he’s not getting laid, and lately, he’s obviously not.”
Ignoring them, Madeline wandered upstairs. In the hallway, she caught a glimpse of the small lobby. Just inside the door, Tick Calvert stood talking with the same tall, good-looking farmer who’d come to her rescue earlier. As she watched, Tick grinned and slapped the other man on the shoulder before he left. The farmer waved on his way out the door.
Madeline shook her head. Well, then. Even if she’d been interested, being Tick’s friend put him out of the running. She definitely had enough mess in her life already.
“Holton.” Tick’s grim voice pulled her from the mini-reverie. “You ready to go run through patrol routes?”
“Sure.” She pinned on a patently false enthusiastic smile, and he scowled.
For their first trip out, he put her in the driver’s seat but insisted on giving verbal directions as they drove every back road in the county. Finally, her frustration bubbled over. “Damn it, Calvert, I am a local, remember? I don’t need you to hold my hand here.”
He tapped his fingers on the door panel. “This isn’t going to work until two things happen, Madeline. One, you have to do more than go through the motions. Two, you’ve got to get off that damn high horse of yours.”
She scowled at him as she turned left onto a familiar red dirt road. “Like you want it to work.”
His brows lowered and a muscle jumped in his cheek. “It’s about more than what I want. Stan hired you. He wants you in this position, and I have to make sure my department runs smoothly.”
“Your department.” She flexed her hands on the wheel. “I thought it was Stanton’s house.”
He tossed her an infuriated look. “This is hopeless. Pull off up here.”
She obeyed without comment, steering the patrol car into the drive of a long-forgotten shack, weathered and forlorn. Tick pushed his door open and exited the car, leaning against the hood, arms over his chest.
After killing the engine, she climbed out and walked to stand at the front of the car. Tick ran a hand through his hair. “Holy hell, I need a cigarette.”
With a shrug, she snagged her pack from her jacket pocket and extended it. He stared at the package with mingled longing and repulsion. “You smoke?”
She shook one free and lit it. “When I feel like it.”
His dark gaze trailed the smoke as it curled upward. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re one of those people who can take it or leave it.”
She inhaled, letting the tiny bite of nicotine soothe her ragged nerves. “Pretty much.”
“Figures.”
“Sure you don’t want one?”
He snorted. “I want it, believe me. I’m just not taking it. One leads to another with me.”
She propped a hip on the hood. “Why, so the great and mighty Tick Calvert does have a weakness after all. How shocking.”
“Don’t start that crap, Holton.”
“Maybe I’m not the only one with a high horse.”
He rubbed a hand over his nape, staring into the field beyond the house. “You know what we’re going to have to do for this to work, don’t you?”
She stiffened, her stomach dropping like she’d just peeked over the edge of some massive abyss.
He turned those dark eyes on her. “We have to deal with what happened.”

No title yet, and this is completely unedited:

Near the front offices, teachers drifted in and out, chatting or griping, and a group of softball players ducked into the teacher resource room to purchase snacks before practice. Trace left his office door open and settled in his chair to return a parent phone call. Updating his evaluation calendar took far few minutes than inputting observation notes would. When he closed the calendar app, Kaydee smiled at him from his desktop, blue eyes sparkling, a big cheer bow atop her gleaming blonde ponytail. He leaned back in his chair, soaking in every detail of his precious girl’s face.

He nudged his mouse, hovered over the folder icon, and pulled up a video he’d already watched countless times.

On the screen, Kaydee rocked in his own desk chair and twirled the end of her ponytail about her fingers. She scanned the office, a mischievous smile lighting her face. “One day, I’m going to have an office just like this – maybe this one, Daddy, wouldn’t that be cool? Can’t you see me, up and down the hall with the radio, leading and . . .”

He let her animated description of her future escapades as an administrator wash over him. The photos and videos held her frozen in time, barely seventeen, bright and bubbling over with potential and anticipation.

All of that had been over so quickly, lost in moments, in a handful of adolescent decisions.

He spread his hands over his thighs. Losing Sara left his ring finger bare, left him missing his role as her husband.

​Losing Kaydee left a gouged-out void where his heart used to be. He’d learned how not to be a husband anymore.
He didn’t think he’d ever learn how to be a father who no longer had a beloved child. 

Yes, I've been AWOL again. Lots going on -- travel, testing, some family changes -- but I'm back, gearing up for the release of Gone From Me on May 10! 

In Gone From Me, Rob is partnered with Deputy Troy Lee Farr, the hero from Fall Into Me -- not to mention the resident department screw-up in the early books in the series. I so enjoyed unfolding Troy Lee's character, and he became one of my favorite heroes. In this book, I had the chance to explore the older-woman/younger-man trope as well. This book kicked off as part of a dare (as in, there was an idea and I wanted to see if I could pull it off). 

Here's the blurb and excerpt:

She’s finally falling for the right man…at the worst possible time.
 
Fall Into Me
A part of the Hearts of the South series.
 
After two back-to-back romantic disappointments, bar owner Angel Henderson isn’t looking for love. In the past month, she’s been passed over twice by men she’d pinned her hopes on, both times in favor of a younger woman. She’s ready to swear off men for life. The only problem? A certain younger man determined to prove he can be her right man.
Sheriff’s deputy Troy Lee Farr is tired of being the department screw-up. The harder he tries to prove himself, the worse it gets. The only thing that’s gone right recently is getting a second chance with Angel. Except she’d rather jam on the brakes than rush into a new relationship. Now he has to work hard to prove his worth as a romantic prospect.
Troy Lee is a patient man, and it isn’t long before Angel is falling into him as hard as he’s fallen for her. Just as Angel begins to think of him as more than a fun date, her past—and Troy’s dangerous reality—threatens the tentative happiness they’ve found in one another.
Reminding them both that security is tenuous…and unconditional love is the biggest challenge of all.
 
Warning: Cops who talk like cops, explicit older woman-younger man lovin’, and two-boxes-of-tissues emotion.
 
 
Julie nudged her and tilted her chin toward the stage. “These girls are crazy-stupid over that boy.”
Following the direction of Julie’s gaze, Angel watched as Troy Lee and Clark Dempsey, the EMT who played drums for the small group, were waylaid by a little blonde and a willowy brunette, both in their very early twenties. The blonde giggled and held out a permanent marker in Troy Lee’s direction. While he uncapped it, she tugged down the already low vee of her T-shirt, exposing the rounded curve of her upper breast and the edge of a lacy red bra.
“Oh my God.” Julie laughed, a puffing, choked titter. “Did he just sign her boob?”
“He sure did.” To Angel’s relief, her voice came out normal after fighting its way past the tsunami of possessive pique swamping her. The blonde graced Clark with the opportunity to autograph her other breast and the brunette touched Troy Lee’s arm, rubbing her palm over his biceps as she flirted. With a smile, he extricated himself from the contact.
Angel swallowed hard. Darn it, this whole scenario shouldn’t kick her in the chest the way it did. They were friends and she didn’t own him. Besides, she knew what it was like to be passed over in favor of a younger, more desirable woman.
The brunette snagged the marker from Clark as he finished his signature with a flourish. With a sultry flutter of her lashes, she passed it to Troy Lee and turned her back on him, hitching the waistline of her hip-riding jeans down just a bit to provide him room to sign the small of her back. The thin pink strand of a rhinestone-dusted thong rested across her hip above the faded denim. Eyebrows raised, Troy Lee exchanged a look with Clark but bent to scrawl his name across the smooth skin just the same.
Angel pulled her gaze from the tableau. As the club’s patrons trickled out, she buried herself closing out tabs, tallying receipts and disbursing charged tips to servers.
Behind her, wood clattered on the polished bar. “Hey.”
She tensed at Troy Lee’s voice, the rich tones sliding over her like caressing fingers. She schooled her features and turned to face him. “Hey yourself.”
She laid her paperwork out on the bar and tried not to look at him. His hair stood up in damp spikes and his shirt clung, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. Lord help her, she could smell him, a blend of spicy deodorant, male sweat and musky warmth that kicked off images of hard sweaty sex and writhing bodies. Ooh, her hands wrapped around her footboard while he pumped into her from behind… Her belly clenched on a fluttering of arousal.
She clamped down on the reactions by dragging up the picture of the brunette touching him, of his hand at her hip while he autographed her skin. He swiped a wrist over his damp forehead and she reached for his customary Corona. Silence stretched while she wrapped up the day’s reconciliation and he sipped at the beer.
Julie returned from supervising cleanup and patted Troy Lee’s shoulder. “Starting your own fan club?”
He grimaced and took a long pull. “I guess.”
Julie laughed and wandered into the kitchen. The picture of his touching the girl flashed in Angel’s head again, bringing that breath-stealing wave of jealousy with it. Angel separated ones into stacks of fifty, rubber banded them and stuck them in the bank bag. “You don’t have to hang around here, you know.”
He stopped with the bottle halfway to his lips. “I always stay to make sure y’all get out okay.”
“We’re fine.”
His brows lowered, eyes narrowed. “Trying to get rid of me?”
“Of course not.” The small laugh she produced held sufficient scoffing. “I just wasn’t sure if you had something to do or not.”
More like someone to do. The mean and so-not-like-her thought darted through her head. Darn it, the last month had done a real number on her.
His eyes constricted further, to glittering blue slits. “Jealous and bitchy really doesn’t work on you, Angel baby.”
“Don’t call me that.” The unreasonable annoyance prickled beneath her skin. She didn’t want his pet names, didn’t want to fall any further into him, when all that would happen would be his leaving and her getting hurt all over again. “And I am not jealous.”
Without answer, he simply watched her. She stacked the next set of fifty bills against the bar with a sharp smack. “I am not jealous, Troy Lee. If you wanted to go out with one of those girls, it’s nothing to do with me.”
His shoulders moved in an easy shrug. “If I wanted to be with one of them, then I wouldn’t be sitting here. So what does that tell you?”
She paused and met his gaze straight on. “You should be seeing someone your own age, Troy Lee.”
“Please don’t start that bullshit again. It’s not the issue and you know it.”
“Really. What, pray tell, is the issue?”
“We’ve been out one time and already you’re looking for me to cut and run.” He shook his head. “You’re doing it again. Speeding ahead, looking for where you think you’re going, instead of seeing what’s along the way. You gotta learn to slow down and enjoy the ride, Angel.”
How was she supposed to argue with that?
They lapsed into silence once more, although some of the tension had dissipated. She finished her closing while he nursed the Corona. Her girls, including Julie, drifted out in twos and threes, until only the two of them remained. She locked the deposit in the safe, grabbed her bag and flipped through her keys to the one that secured the front door.
Outside, the sultry promise of the sunny day had dipped into a damp chill and she was glad to have his warm presence at her back, blocking the slight breeze, while she locked the door.
Guitar case in hand, he strolled across the parking lot at her side to where his Jeep waited next to her Mustang. He tossed the case into the passenger seat and she eyed the Wrangler’s bikini top. “You’re going to freeze.”
He cast a quick glance at it. “Nah. It’ll be nice to cool off after being under the lights.”
She fiddled with her keys, turning them between her fingers. “Well, good night then. Thank you for walking me out.”
“You’re welcome.” His gaze lingered on her face. With a lazy movement, he rested a hand on the roof of her car, bringing his long body into her personal space and filling her with breathless intensity.
She should speak, should laugh, should do something. Instead, all she could do was stare into those lash-fringed baby blues and imagine all the wicked possibilities suddenly trembling between them.
He lifted his other hand and sifted the fingers through her hair at her temple, rubbing a couple of strands together. One corner of his mouth hitched up. “About that kissing thing.”
Oh, this was so not like her…hadn’t she always been a take-charge kind of girl? And here she was, her back pressed against the driver’s side door, keys clenched in one hand, watching those beautiful eyes draw closer as he took the initiative and leaned in.
She closed her eyes before his mouth touched hers. Oh please, don’t let it be any good. It would be so much easier to walk, to let him go if--
Warm lips, a hint of lime and Corona. Pliable flesh, a bit of pressure, a suggestion of persuasive seduction, her bottom lip sucked lightly between his. Breathless, giddy desire plunging through her, swirling in an achy spin lower in her belly, pulsing to life between her thighs.
He lifted his mouth, caressed the corner of hers, then sought her lips once more. She rested her hands against his chest, over his thudding heart, and offered her mouth up to him, allowing his tongue to tease her lips apart.
Oh, this was good, playful strokes, a light tangle of tongues and lips. He moved closer, hard thighs brushing but not pressing to her own, both hands braced now on the car roof, his body holding her prisoner and providing shelter all at the same time.

I love this book. Just love it. Mark (AKA Cookie) is one of my favorite characters, and I had so much fun unpacking his character. Blurb and excerpt follow. 

It’s not the past that wounds us…it’s the ghosts we hold onto. 
Hearts Awakened by Linda Winfree
Book Six of the Hearts of the South series
 
A lifetime ago Mark Cook’s pregnant wife vanished, taking everything and leaving an empty, aching hole in his life. Since then, as penance for his failure as a husband and father, he’s refused to allow himself to live. Refused to lay his sleeping heart on the line for any woman.
 
Enter Tori Calvert, his best friend’s baby sister. Suddenly, against his will—and against his better judgment—that same damaged heart seems determined to reawaken. And Mark’s not sure he can withstand the pain.
 
When she was a teenager, a vicious attack ripped away Tori’s very essence as a woman. Finally she feels ready to focus her existence on something other than her job as a rape crisis counselor. And to step outside the shelter of her loving, protective family. She trusts Mark more than any man, yet fear holds her back.
 
Fear that even the healing light of love may not be enough to banish the shadows of the past.
 

**
With the bathroom light offering slight illumination, Tori lay awake and stared at the ceiling. Outside her window, car doors slammed and disembodied voices moved along the sidewalk. Another car cruised through the parking lot, a spotlight flashing briefly against the heavy drapes. In the room on her east side, the television droned.
She hadn’t heard Mark’s door or his moving around in his room. Restless, she flopped over in the bed. The blanket pulled at her belly button ring and she winced, rubbing the spot. Above her, a deep voice rumbled, followed by a roll of male laughter.
The red numerals on the clock radio glowed. After one in the morning. Where was he?
Like she had to ask. The idea caused a painful clench in her chest and she rubbed at her gritty eyes. Pushing the covers aside, she padded to the window and perched on the ledge to peek between the drapes. Nothing moved in the parking lot. No vehicles traveled on the street.
A figure stood silhouetted on the sidewalk facing the bay. A familiar male build, arms at his sides, head slightly bent. The ache in her chest increased and she clutched the edge of the drape. Everything in the line of his body spoke of intense pain and misery.
Go to him.
“I can’t,” she whispered. He didn’t want her comfort or help. What he wanted was easy, anonymous sex. He was right—he wanted the one thing she couldn’t offer him.
As she watched, he lifted his head and turned toward the motel. She froze, not wanting him to see her watching. Soft footsteps shuffled on the walkway. His door opened and closed, and she breathed a slow sigh of relief. At least he’d come back alone. He hadn’t brought the other woman, whoever she was, with him.
The other woman. Tori shook her head. For there to be another woman, a relationship had to exist, and it definitely didn’t.
His television clicked on and the volume dropped quickly. She leaned against the wall, eyes closed. He was on the other side of that partition, getting ready for bed.
“Stop thinking about that. He’s back, and he’s alone. You can go to bed now. He obviously is.”
She slid from her perch on the window ledge. She’d grab a glass of water and go back to bed, try to get some sleep.
As she passed the second bed, her right foot caught the corner of the platform, under the bedspread. Pain exploded in her toes. She yelped, bent over with the force of the agony moving up her leg in waves.
Clutching her injured toes, she hopped on one foot and bit back a moan. Lord, that hurt.
“Tori?” Mark knocked on the connecting door, his voice sharp with concern. “Are you all right?”
She couldn’t speak, tears blurring her vision, her energy focused on breathing and fighting off the burning pain.
Blood leaked between her fingers. Biting her lip, she dropped on the end of the bed, rocking back and forth.
“Tori?” If anything, his voice was sharper, a note of alarm creeping in around the edges. “Tori, I’m coming in.”
Whatever. He could walk to Timbuktu if he wanted. All she wanted was for the throbbing in her entire foot to stop.
“What’s wrong?” He knelt in front of her, his hands running over her. Checking for injuries. She recognized that much. “Tori, what happened?”
His voice wavered. She shook her head, still clutching her foot. “My toes.”
The sharp gray gaze dropped to her foot and he swore. He cradled her heel in his palm. “Let me see.”
“Hit them on the bed.” She forced her fingers to let go. Blood dripped on the carpet.
He lifted her foot. “Oh, honey.”
One strong finger probed at the side of her toe and she sucked in a breath. “Ouch!”
“I’m going to get a towel and some ice. Hang on a sec.”
Gently, he set her foot down and rose to return to his room. In seconds, he was back, carrying two towels and his ice bucket.
“Here.” He lifted her foot again, wrapped one towel underneath and placed the second, filled with ice, along the top of her toes. She flinched. “I know,” he said, his voice soothing. His fingers moved over her ankle in a comforting caress. “It’ll feel better in a sec.”
Under the numbing cold, the pain receded slightly and she stared at him. Barefoot and resting on his haunches, he still wore his khakis, but he’d shed his polo shirt. A fine layer of dark hair covered his chest and formed an arrow down the line of his stomach. A small tattoo lurked between his pecs, an infinity swirl angled to the left, over his heart. He rested her foot against his thigh, muscles rippling beneath her heel. Her breath stopped, but this time it had nothing to do with pain. Her fingers tingled. What would it feel like if she traced the tattoo, ran her hands over his chest? Were those muscles as hard as the ones in his arms?
“Wiggle your toes for me.” She did, her gaze on his hands touching her. Deft and gentle, his fingers moved over her foot and shivers trickled through her, almost making her forget the burning pulsing. “I don’t think anything’s broken. You have a cut, but it’s not very deep. We can clean it up and put a bandage on it.”
“Thanks.” Warmth traveled out from his touch, an odd contrast to the numbing cold at her toes. He glanced up at her and all the warmth died. Deep pink lipstick smudged the corner of his mouth. Leaning forward, she swiped it away with her thumb. “Did she make you forget?”
He froze, staring at her. Slowly, he shook his head. “No. I mean, I didn’t…” A hard swallow moved his throat. “I couldn’t.”
A trickle of icy water dripped down the side of her foot. Tori moistened dry lips. “Why not?”
“Because it didn’t feel right. Because it’s not working anymore. She probably could have made me forget Jenny for a little while…” Another swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “But she couldn’t make me forget you.”

When I was writing Anything But Mine, I made the off-hand comment to a writing friend that Tom McMillian, the district attorney, had gray areas. She immediately wanted to know his story. I knew a little, as he had also appeared in Truth and Consequences. The result of delving into his background was Memories of Us. The blurb follows.

Beneath the lies is truth—and temptation that neither of them can resist.
Book Five of the Hearts of the South series.
Investigator Celia St. John is hopelessly attracted to the one man she shouldn’t want, district attorney Tom McMillian. Arrogant and completely alpha, McMillian is the type of man she likes—a tough son of a bitch. The problem? He’s her boss, and he’s still hung up on his ex-wife.
Since his marriage to a law enforcement agent failed after the death of his infant son, Tom has avoided emotional involvement with any woman. Despite his attraction to Celia, he refuses to get involved with another cop.
Their no-strings affair quickly becomes a tangled web of intrigue as they investigate an illegal baby adoption ring and more than one murder, one of which points to Tom as a suspect. The more they dig under the lies, the higher the risk, not only to their relationship, but their lives.

I'm really bad about torturing my characters. In this book, lots of torture. It's closely linked to Hold On to Me, so be prepared that if you read the series out of order, Anything But Mine includes spoilers for Hold On to Me. Here is the blurb and excerpt:

Will her need to do the right thing cost them everything?
 
Anything But Mine by Linda Winfree
Book Four of the Hearts of the South series.
 
Public Defender Autry Holton is in a "shunned if she does, disbarred if she doesn't" position—honor-bound to defend an accused serial killer. To complicate matters, she’s pregnant and hasn’t told the father about a baby she’s sure he won’t want.
Sheriff Stanton Reed never believed he was the right man for Autry. He’s already raised one family and suffered a failed marriage. When an attempted break-in at Autry’s home highlights the real danger she faces, at first all he can think of is protecting her. Before long, all he can focus on is how much he loves her and wants her back in his life.
But just as Autry dares to hope there’s a future for them, an act of home-grown terrorism shatters her trust—and threatens their lives.
 
She wasn’t going to die. It just felt like she was.
And right now, she really, really wanted to.
Autry Holton rested her forehead against the cool wood of the vanity. The orange-scented cleaner she used wafted from the floor, and nausea churned in her stomach again. Whoever had coined the term “morning sickness” was an idiot. It was more like morning, noon and night sickness, and anyone who said it didn’t last beyond the third month needed a mental health check too. Tonight, she’d be willing to bet labor pains wouldn’t feel like menstrual cramps, either.
Holding the vanity for support, she pushed to her feet. Her knees trembled, and she rested for a minute, breathing through her nose. Avoiding her reflection, she reached for her toothbrush and toothpaste. She didn’t have to look to know her eyes were red and watery, her hair stringy, her skin pasty.
Yes, she had that pregnant-woman glow people raved about.
The mint cleansed the awful taste and left her feeling somewhat refreshed. She spit and rinsed her mouth. This constant nausea couldn’t last five more months, could it? At least, if nothing else, it would go away when she had the baby. Stress. It had to be the unremitting stress. If she could just relax--
A high-pitched whine rent the air, and she dropped the cup, ceramic shards flying everywhere, plinking off the tile, hitting the wall with soft thumps. Her heart thudded, tempo picking up to an uncomfortable race. Oh God. He’d come for her, just as he’d said he would. Her stomach pitched again, and she wrapped her arms across the small bulge of her baby. She couldn’t let him hurt the baby.
Think, Autry. She slammed the door closed and threw the lock, hitting the panic button next to the light switch. In the bedroom, the phone rang. She took a step back, and pain sliced into her foot. The broken cup. Just a cut. She could handle that. She could handle anything as long as he didn’t get through the bathroom door.
The phone continued to ring, and she strained to hear other noises—splintering doors, shattering glass, footsteps. Nothing. Simply the harsh whine of the alarm and the phone’s shrill ring mingling with the roar of her pulse and her own rough breathing.
In her stomach, the baby fluttered, the low, soft movement she’d only noticed in the last few days. “It’s all right,” she whispered, the sound of her shaky voice too loud in the bathroom. She slid down to sit on the floor again, blood oozing from her foot to pool on the white tile.
“It’s all right, baby,” she said again, rubbing a palm over the soft mound. Maybe she should have gone for the phone, but that meant crossing the bedroom to get the cordless from her desk and she’d already been here, in the safe room with the panic button. Besides, if she didn’t answer, the monitoring company would automatically call the sheriff’s department. Help should be on the way. Everything would be fine. She just had to keep telling herself that. Help would arrive soon.
The lights went out. The alarm ceased its wild squeal in an instant. A neighbor’s dog barked in a wild frenzy.
Autry screamed.
 
Stanton Reed slid from the patrol car and left the door slightly ajar. Sound traveled farther during the quietness of night and he didn’t want the snick of a closing door to alert anyone to his presence. Darkness shrouded the neighborhood, punctuated only by pools of blue from security and street lights. Welcoming the shadows, he slipped into them, using the dark for cover. He jogged across a damp lawn, eyeing the street as he went. No one moving about, no one hiding under vehicles.
With each step, Autry’s name beat in his head. Hard to convince himself this was any routine call, when it was Autry’s house, Autry’s alarm, Autry not answering the phone.
Dogs barked in the distance, a wild chorus, but the alarm remained silent. A lawn away, he could see her house sitting, completely dark, even the outside lights extinguished. Foreboding shivered over him. Had someone cut the power, silencing the alarm before the neighbors awoke?
Why didn’t she answer the damn phone?
Dread lay like a lump in his gut. Four minutes since dispatch had received the call from her alarm company, another two minutes before that between the initial alarm and the call to dispatch. A lot could happen in six minutes.
A person could die.
No. Damn it, he couldn’t let anything happen to her. As he reached Autry’s dark yard, one of the shadows to his right moved, morphed into the running form of Tick Calvert, his lead investigator. Any other time, he and Tick both would have been home in bed this time of night, but tonight, Stanton was thankful for the flu that had more than half of his deputies incapacitated. Autry deserved the best his department could offer. He might not have been the right man for her personally, but he and Tick were the best cops to respond to her call.
“See anything?” Tick whispered as he reached Stanton’s side. He had the entry ram slung over his shoulder, flashlight off but ready in his hand.
Stanton shook his head, trying to still the nervous pulsing under his skin. No noises came from the house. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. God, let her be okay. Don’t let him be too late. “You?”
“Nothing.” Tick tilted his head toward the house. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” With the well-oiled timing of a long partnership, they circled the house, Tick moving right, Stanton moving left, so they met up at the back door.
“Looks clear,” Tick said, his voice a mere breath. He lowered the entry ram and stepped back. “Ready to do this?”
He’d been ready four minutes ago. “Just do it.”
Seconds later, the steelcore door swung inward with a deafening bang. The sound echoed in the still night, and the dogs barked again, wilder this time. The door hung on its hinges at a drunken angle, and Tick laid the ram aside. Stanton eased his gun from its holster, aware of the hushed slide of Tick’s Glock leaving its leather case as well. On either side of the doorway, they made eye contact using the dim illumination cast by a neighbor’s security light. Both eased to a crouch.
Stanton hefted his flashlight, rubbing his thumb over the switch, prepared to perform a “flashlight roll”. The house remained dark and silent, but they couldn’t take a chance it was empty. For all they knew, a suspect waited, set to ambush them at the first opportunity. The glow behind them would serve to silhouette them as they moved through the door, so a low-profile entry was key.
He strained his ears, listening for any sound that would alert him to Autry’s presence. Where was she? What was going on?
With a soft click, he depressed the flashlight switch. Brightness burst into the kitchen, and he let the cylinder flow from his fingers, rolling across the doorway to rest near Tick’s waiting hand. Nothing moved in the light.
“Same as always?” Tick murmured. Stanton nodded. He lifted his gun, offering cover while Tick slipped into the room. Grabbing his flashlight, the beam extinguished again, Stanton followed. In the dark, his senses seemed heightened. The silence pulsed with a noise of its own, a heaviness against his ears. The familiar smell of the house, a blend of orange cleaner and the cinnamon potpourri Autry loved, surrounded him. The urge to cry out her name gripped him, and he shoved it down. The training had to win over instinct.
Progress through the house was torturous. Each room required a cautious approach and thorough check, with the dark serving to underscore the tension. At least he knew the house, which saved them minutes, but his foreboding grew as they neared Autry’s bedroom. He’d heard nothing to let him know she was in the house, that she was okay, and he dreaded what they might find once they crossed that threshold.
The bedroom door stood open, and once more, they repeated the flashlight roll and covered entry. The room was empty, the bed rumpled. The scent was different here, the unique smell he associated with Autry, her body wash and the pure sweetness of her skin filling his senses. An image flashed through Stanton’s head, of those same sheets wrapped around his and Autry’s sated bodies, of her soft touch and softer sighs. He shook away the memory.
Where was she?

Oh, this book -- be still, my beating heart. This is the first book I ever completed. 

It's also the book I rewrote something like twelve times. And It's the book that if I could rewrite again, I would. 

Even with all that, I love it. Tick and Cait are two of my favorite characters, and I loved unfolding their story. I love how they love one another (although she doesn't want to admit it). I love how tenacious he is and how once she does decide she can trust him, she's all in. 

I simply love it. I hope you do, too.

She keeps a secret buried in the past. He wants the truth—now. But an unknown killer could destroy their future.
 
Hold On to Me by Linda Winfree
Book Three in the Hearts of the South series.
 
For FBI profiler Caitlin Falconetti, immersing herself in her job is the only way to quell the memories of a vicious, near-fatal attack and what it cost her, including the only man she ever loved. Better to let him think she simply rejected him, rather than reveal a painful secret that she's certain would have destroyed his feelings for her.
 
Investigator Lamar “Tick” Calvert is determined to clean out the corruption-riddled sheriff’s department in his hometown. While he understands Caitlin's drive to excel at her job, that doesn’t mean he's happy about the prospect of working with his former lover, the one woman he tried and failed to hold onto.
 
A rash of unsolved murders, including a politician's daughter, brings them together to find the murderer before another woman dies.  Daily contact re-ignites the lingering attraction between them, but Caitlin won't risk opening herself and revealing her secret. She plans to complete the killer's profile, make an arrest and get out of town for good.
 
Tick plans to solve this case, too, but now that Caitlin's back in his life, he also plans to finally dig up the truth about why she left him.
 
But there's an added complication—the killer isn't done, and Caitlin could be the next target.
 
*
The squad room lay quiet and deserted. A subdued rumble of activity drifted up the stairs from the dispatch area, mixing with the scent of stale coffee lingering in the air.
The few bites of chile relleno Tick had forced himself to eat formed a lump in his stomach. He tucked his cigarettes in his pocket, the two he’d smoked back-to-back on the way over here not really settling him down.
He paused in the doorway to the conference room. Jeff and Cookie were nowhere in sight. Caitlin sat, reading the red leather-bound journal they’d taken from Amy’s room, a cup from the local java joint at her elbow. He watched her, the thick black silk of her hair pulled into a loose knot, the Fibbie suit traded for jeans and a simple white T-shirt under a neat seersucker jacket. One loafer-clad foot tapped the floor, a frown of concentration wrinkling her brow.
Damn, she was beautiful.
Beautiful and scarred. Not visibly damaged, but something had stolen her away from him.
Damned if he wasn’t going to find out what. If he was trapped into this working arrangement, so was she. This time, he’d make it a hell of a lot harder for her to dodge the issue.
“Find anything interesting?”
She startled like a scalded cat. The diary slid to the floor and one flailing hand collided with her coffee, sending the dark liquid across the table.
“Oh, hell!” She jumped to her feet and righted the cup. He grabbed a handful of napkins from the shelf by the door and began mopping up the mess. She glared, her eyes big and dark with fury in her pale face. “Don’t sneak up on me like that, Calvert.”
“Who’s sneaking?” He dropped the sopping mass of napkins in the trash. “I just walked into my own department and asked a simple question.”
She leaned down to retrieve the book, but he reached it first. They straightened and he proffered it, merely the length of the volume between them. She took it from him with ill grace. “A little advance warning would be nice.”
“You’re awful jumpy.” He studied her as she sank into the chair again. The color didn’t return to her face and tiny tremors shook her slender fingers. A warning flag waved in his mind.
“I was reading.”
He pulled out the chair cater-cornered and closest to hers, an old interrogator’s trick. She flicked a glance at him and shifted to the farthest edge of her seat.
“So how’ve you been?”
“Fine. Thank you.”
“Busy?” He leaned back and folded his arms behind his head. He stretched his legs, crowding hers a little, forcing himself into a semblance of casual relaxation. “Probably had to drop a lot of things to come down here.”
“Not really.” She scratched a note on a legal pad, her knuckles white. “I’ve been out of the field.”
That surprised him. She lived for the damn job. At one time, he’d been fully prepared to take a backseat to that drive of hers, as long as they could be together. “Why?”
Her Montblanc pen faltered, ink smearing on the paper. She dropped it and looked up, her eyes cool and shuttered. “Did I miss something, Calvert? When did we agree to play twenty questions?”
He smiled, the “aw-shucks-good-ol’-boy” one he used whenever he had to worm his way under the defenses of a local suspect. “You said it, Falconetti, we have to work together. I’m just playing nice, making conversation.”
“Try selling that line of bull to someone who’ll buy it.” Her hands were in her lap now, but he’d bet his next pack of smokes her fingers were wound into fists. The whole line of her body screamed with tension and the need for escape. How many times had he seen that posture on a perp? “You’re digging.”
“That implies you’re hiding something.”
She pushed her chair back, obviously preparing to flee. “Hiding something? You’re deluded—”
“What is it, Cait?” He grasped her wrist, holding her in the chair with a light touch. “What the hell happened while I was in Mississippi?”
“Let go.”
“Tell me.”
“Don’t touch me.” They stared at one another, the power struggle pulsing to life, growing and twisting between them. “I mean it, Tick, let go or—”
“Or what? You’ll slap a sexual harassment suit on me? Ruin my career?” He leaned forward, ready to call her bluff. “Go for it, precious.”
The endearment he’d only ever used with her slipped out and her eyes widened, darkened. She moistened her lips and tugged against his hold. “You’re hurting me.”
Not physically. He wasn’t holding her tightly enough to do that, but he released her. She had a trapped, hunted air about her now and grim satisfaction curled through him. Oh, yeah, she was hiding something. If he could just find the weak point, break through that damn control of hers…
“I’d never hurt you and you know it.”
“Stop.” Her voice trembled and his chest tightened.
“Not until you—”
“Until nothing. We’re colleagues, Tick,” she said, cold dismissal not quite covering the lingering nervousness in her tone. “That’s all.”
“We used to be friends.”
And lovers. The words hung in the air, unsaid.
“Well, this looks cozy.”
Damn. Tick smothered a wave of frustrated anger. Cookie had the worst timing known to man. Tick straightened, making sure his expression was blank before he looked around at the other man. Cookie’s face was a study in smooth guilelessness that didn’t fool Tick for an instant.

How do I love this book? Let me count the ways . . .

I love that Del and Barb have ordinary jobs -- he's an insurance salesperson, she's a teacher. I love that they love one another, but have lost sight of that in the demands of an ordinary life. I love how they want to find their way back. 

And I love that their kids aren't perfect. You know how some people (mainly on Facebook) get perfect kids? Yeah, I didn't get those and neither did my characters. This was my first marriage-in-jeopardy book, and I adore it.

I really like Del and Tick's interactions as brothers, too. 
​
Here's the blurb and excerpt:

Reunited by their teenage son’s possible involvement in a murder . . . their new needs and old passions are destined to explode.
 
His Ordinary Life by Linda Winfree
Book Two of the Hearts of the South series.
 
Del Calvert has spent his life in quiet desperation, trying to meet everyone’s expectations and feeling like he never quite measured up. From his teens, Barb was everything he wanted and needed, but knowing he wasn’t enough for her drove him out of the marriage.
 
Barbara Calvert is afraid to need anyone—especially the soon-to-be-ex husband she still loves. She’s reluctant to fall under his seductive spell of love and security once more.
 
But when their son’s secrets threaten his life, everything changes. Del must help his son as unseen and threatening forces move ever closer, putting the entire family at risk. And along the way, he hopes to convince Barbara to give him one more chance to win back the wonderful, ordinary life he didn’t appreciate until it was gone.
 
**
Tick stepped into the patch of light spilling from the open door. Good Lord. Del stared. His brother looked awful. His investigator’s uniform of khakis and a dark green golf shirt hung on a lean frame missing pounds it couldn’t spare. He needed a haircut, black hair falling on his forehead, red-rimmed eyes sunken in his gaunt face.
“Sweet Jesus, brother, what happened to you?”
Tick rolled his eyes heavenward. “I’ve been busy. We’re rebuilding this department from the ground up, remember?”
Yeah, but this decline seemed to have more to do with intense misery than overwork. Maybe Tori was right. Maybe he was on the rebound for real.
Del wondered if he carried around that haunted look as well. Shaking off the thought, he tilted his chin toward the house. “Is he here?”
Tick’s mouth tightened. “No. I pulled in some favors. I’ve got a pair of our off-duty guys actively looking for him.”
A cold fear tiptoed down Del’s back. Chandler County wasn’t that big. Where was he?
“What the hell are you driving?” Tick rested an arm on the porch post.
Del glanced at the Porsche. It really wasn’t him, but he hadn’t had much of a choice except to drive it, since his fifteen-year-old Cherokee had finally kicked the bucket. “Bought it at a bank auction. It needed some engine work and a paint job, figured I’d flip it for a profit. Just picked it up from the body shop yesterday.”
“Wondered if your new single status had gone to your head.” Tick jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Barbara’s fixing breakfast. I guess she needs something to do. Come on in.”
His older brother inviting him into his own damn house didn’t sit well. At all. Angry resentment crowded out his earlier concern. Glaring at the back of Tick’s head, he followed.
Inside, the scents swamped him—a heady blend of roses, a lighter citrus aroma, and the delight of fresh coffee and French toast hanging in the air. Home. The sensation wrapped around him, driving out the painful loneliness for a moment. He filled his lungs, wanting to experience as much of this luxury as possible. Funny how the things he missed the most were the ones he’d never paid attention to when he had them every day.
“Hello, Del.”
Barbara stood in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. He looked at her, the lungs which had been so eager earlier now refusing to work. Wearing loose khaki capris and a coral linen top, her short champagne blonde hair framing her face, she appeared calm and capable. However, the light makeup she wore didn’t quite disguise the evidence of recent tears.
He was staring. Shaking his head, he found his voice. “Hey.”
Dazzling. The mother of his children, the woman he’d shared all but three months of his adult years with, the woman he couldn’t get out of his dreams, and all he could manage was a typical Southern monosyllable. He’d done better than that as a tongue-tied teenage boy who’d failed a semester of senior English.
Somehow, he doubted his brother, Mr. Valedictorian, Mr. FBI Award, ever had the same problem. Del hooked his thumbs in his pockets and looked at Barbara again. The corner of his mouth hitched up in a crooked grin. “Something smells good.”
No answering smile curved Barbara’s full lips. “Are you hungry?”
Small talk when they didn’t know where in the hell their son was, what he was doing. Del shook his head. “Not really.”
“The girls will be up in a little while. I thought I’d have their breakfast ready.” Her voice cracked, and a tiny tremor shook her bottom lip. “How about some coffee?”
“Now that sounds great.”
She looked past him and smiled, a short-lived, tense expression. “Tick?”
“Please. Tell you what. You sit, I’ll pour.” Soft concern lingered in Tick’s voice, and he rubbed her shoulder as he passed into the kitchen. The acid of jealousy blistered Del’s throat. “Mugs still over the stove?”
“Yes.” Moving into the room, Barbara picked up a fringed pillow from the floor. She fluffed it and dropped it on the corner of the camel-colored couch before she straightened the throw lying across the back of the leather armchair.
Del had a flash of her in the waiting room during Lyssa’s surgery to have tubes placed in her ears. She’d straightened everything possible—chairs, magazines, fake plants. The constant movement had driven him crazy, and finally, he’d pulled her down beside him and rubbed at her shoulders, whispering reassurances all the while.
He took an instinctive step toward her and stopped. He cleared his throat. “I’m sure he’s okay.”
Blue eyes narrowed, brows lowered, she looked at him over her shoulder. “You always think everything’s going to be okay.”
They’ll be okay. You worry too much. His irritated words when she’d fretted over telling the children about his plans to move out. He’d been wrong. They’d been far from okay—Lyssa crying, Anna withdrawing, Blake…Blake and his anger.
He’d left them anyway, put his own wants above what was best for his family. How did a guy make up for that?
“We’ll make it okay.” He tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “We’ll figure something out.”
She shook her head and glared, hands on her hips. She opened her mouth, closed it, lips pursed, then opened it again.
The back door creaked open. Del turned, his gaze meeting his son’s blazing eyes. Blake stared at him a second, spun and walked out of the house. The door slammed behind him.
“Go ahead, Del.” Barbara’s voice was cold. “Find a way to make this okay.”