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.
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.
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