Let’s Get Healthy: Day Fifty-two (AKA Stress) #romancefit
Time on Treadmill: 30 minutes.
Weariness: Nigh infinite
Stress sucks, pure and simple. Not only does it make it hard to sleep, rob you of your creative drive, and turn you into a ball of anxiety, it can also have long-term physical effects on you.
Which is why I’m doing my best today not to stress. I am taking deep breaths (well, as deep as I can seeing that it’s triple digits down here in the clavicle of Texas and the air is full of plant detritus), thinking good thoughts, reminding myself that other people have it FAR worse than I do, and that the situation at the moment is temporary. It too shall pass, much like a kidney stone, with blood and screaming. But it shall pass.
And no, I’m not talking about any of the WIPs. Those are actually doing fairly well, surprisingly. Anyway, I shall get over this current hump one way or the other. In the meantime, one of my last fertile cycles is upon me and I’m retaining about two pounds of water, which probably isn’t helping with my mood. But God, two pounds is a huge improvement over five to seven pounds.
Fabulous Friday Reads: The Code Enforcer
TGIF! Let’s kick off the weekend with Valerie J. Clarizo’s hot new re-release The Code Enforcer. Take it away, Valerie!
Having been made the laughing stock of her hometown by her cheating ex-fiancé, Investigator Markie Pearson has sworn off overly-confident, good-looking men. When Bryce Hawk strolls into town, Markie quickly realizes he’s the classic example of a man she needs to keep at a distance.
Ex-Marine Bryce Hawk moves to small-town Wisconsin after his military career-ending injury. All he wants to do is hide in his mundane job as the city’s code enforcer while he sorts out his life. What Bryce doesn’t account for is Markie, that emerald eyed beauty, walking through his office door on day one. Too bad it’s too, late. Women are not in his plans, nor will they ever be…especially Markie, the one who gets his dormant juices flowing while irritating him at the same time.
When the municipal code violators that Bryce is investigating are murdered, Bryce becomes Markie’s number one suspect. Or, is he another target? Is she?
Story Excerpt
His lips silenced her words and his large hands cupped her cheeks, heating her skin. His flavor seeped into her. The kiss that started as urgent slowed, calmed, teased her to the brink of uncontrolled desire. He paused, lingered, and then returned to a soft, slow seducing pace. This guy knew how to kiss.
Bryce. The guy kissing her beyond the ability to think was Bryce. How?
Shit, who cares? His lips felt so good she kept in sync with him. Could do this for hours.
Bryce pulled back. The hope it was just a pause and he’d resume faded quickly as he edged back a bit farther.
Sheer disappointment raked through her. Distance clouded over the desire in his gaze. Where was he going off to?
Markie took a step toward him. He took a step back and shoved his hands in his pockets. His sun-darkened face turned white.
“Are you okay?”
His gaze landed on the floor. “I’m fine. I’m sorry.”
Her heart hammered. “Sorry you kissed me?”
Silence.
This certainly wasn’t the behavior of a confident womanizer. “Bryce?”
He slowly lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t have kissed you. It was a mistake. We work together. We shouldn’t do this.”
That was the biggest line of crap she’d ever heard. What was he afraid of? You can’t kiss someone with that much emotion—heart—and not really mean it, feel it. So it couldn’t be how he felt about her that made him back off just now, something else bothered him. What?
After several beats of uncomfortable silence, she fished her car keys from her pocket. “Okay then. You’re probably right. This is a bad idea.”
She spun around and headed for the door, holding hope he’d call after her.
Nothing.
Moving slowly, she climbed into her vehicle and started the engine, all the time wishing that front door of his would open and he’d step through it to stop her from leaving.
Nothing.
If it hadn’t been for the swirling desire in his gaze when they stared at each other in silence, she wouldn’t have held hope he’d come after her. Between his intense stare and the seducing movement of his mouth when it was pressed to hers, there was no way he didn’t desire her. So why did he fight it?
Peeling back the layers of Bryce Hawk just became her new life mission.
Where to Buy
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About the Author
Valerie Clarizio lives in romantic Door County Wisconsin with her husband and two extremely spoiled cats. She loves to read, write, and spend time at her cabin in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
She’s lived her life surrounded by men, three brothers, a husband, and a male Siamese cat who required his own instruction manual. Keeping up with all the men in her life has turned her into an outdoors enthusiast, of which her favorite activity is hiking in national parks. While out on the trails, she has plenty of time to conjure up irresistible characters and unique storylines for her next romantic suspense or sweet contemporary romance novel.
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Let’s Get Healthy: Day Fifty-one (AKA So I’m An Idiot) #romancefit
Time on Treadmill: 30 minutes.
Readiness for bedtime: Give my my hot cocoa and flannel nightie now, please.
For the last couple of weeks I’ve noticed something disturbing. I’ve been having more and more of a hard time gripping things with my left hand. I would try to pick things up or hold them, and time and time again I’d drop the damned thing. As I am a woman of a certain age, the first thing that came to mind was, “mini-stroke”, followed by a raft of other medical maladies that are not pleasant to contemplate when you know your medical insurance goes bye-bye at the end of the month.
And then today, while I was cursing at a wrapped coil of wire I was trying to saw into jump rings without sawing into my own finger, I noticed that gee, the skin on my left finger and thumb tip is really coarse, almost as if–
As if you’d been making jewelry nonstop for the past six weeks and have been holding small, hot items pinched firmly between your left index finger and thumb while you sawed/filed/sanded them? my subconscious piped up.
Um. Yeah, that.
And in doing so, you’ve built up an extremely thick callus on those extremities, making it difficult to tell when you’re touching things and thus rendering you unable to grip them accurately?
Um…
You’re an idiot.
Yes, I know. But at least now I’m not worrying about stroking out in the middle of a session on Chuck. While I’m on the subject of my jewelry, however, I’ve got some stunning new sterling silver pieces up at the Etsy store as well as some very cool beaded and chainmail pieces, so please go take a look and help me feed the Horde of Five.
In other news, I worked on Shifter Woods: Growl, trimmed my beloved’s beard for him and then helped him dye it because ageism is rampant in the tech industry, and finished a Byzantine bracelet for a customer while watching Dr. Pimple Popper. Some very, very strange stuff grows under human skin, that’s for damn sure.
Let’s Get Healthy: Day Fifty (AKA Want A Cat?) #romancefit
Time on Treadmill: 30 minutes.
Amount of sweat: I could wring a good couple of tablespoons out of my hair right now.
I love my cats, I do. We never intended to have five at a time, but that’s just how it worked out and I’m okay with it most of the time.
Today is not part of that time. I am hot and sweaty because in addition to a metric buttload of paperwork and my time with Chuck I 1) went out to three different stores to get padded envelopes and 22g copper wire, 2) went back out in 99°F temps to water the back yard flowers and shrubs, 3) vacuumed the living room/library/foyer, 4) shampooed part of the carpet after Ramón accidentally had a beer bottle overflow in his hand (to his credit he cleaned up the spill with paper towels and those sani-wipes, but I know from experience that beer is sticky and the carpet would soon become encrusted, hence hauling out the carpet cleaner), 5) made a double-sized batch of gyro meatball mix (which was a huge pain in the ass but totally worth it — those meatballs are the BOMB), 6) proceeded to fry/bake the meatballs, 7) learned that the pitas Ramón had brought home had no pocket inside them so decided to dish up dinner ala tapas, and 8) unloaded/loaded the dishwasher.
All this time, I had Jeremy (aka the Orange Lump) and Jasmine (aka Skitty Kitty) glued to my side, my ankles, my lap, or whatever body part they could reach. I did comb Jemma earlier, but that was willingly on both sides and got a buttload of fur off her so totally worth it. But trying to prep food and and cook it with a large orange cat meowing loudly at you and planting his furry ass where you need to walk is not fun. And when you sit down in a desperate attempt to cool off and a small, skittish grey tabby insists on climbing on your lap desk/arm, it is, let us say, annoying. So I am going to take a shower, eat a piece of some kind of cake Ramón brought home as a treat, and go to sleep early.
Without cats, mind you.
Wicked Wednesday Reads: The Tattoo Artist’s Mate
Happy Wednesday, darlings! Today I’m here with Raven McAllan to celebrate her collaboration with the late and very much missed Doris O’Connor, The Tattoo Artist’s Mate. Here’s what Raven has to say about it:
Hi there and thank you for welcoming to your blog, on this bittersweet occasion. (this is Raven)
As most people know, my bestie, the sister I’d never had, the other half of me, the lovely Doris O’Connor passed away in January from Cancer of an unknown primary.
To say this knocked me for six is an understatement. We knew it wasn’t going to be a good outcome, but it happened so fast. Those of you who followed her on Facebook and twitter will know how it went.
Ironically, she rang me to tell me, just as I was … at a large supermarket collecting for cancer research!
When she went into hospital she was in pain and bored. Nagging me over my Regencies (finish it already, write the sex, just do it) and wondering how to pass the time.
I remember a germ of an idea we’d had a couple of years ago about a tattoo artist who was a shifter. Wrote the first bit and sent it to her with a note … over to you…
I got a giggle gif and a thumbs up. Then Doris’s words. It was, I was told up to me to amalgamate everything.
So the Skype messages went back and forth, and we plotted the story, wrote it both in sequence and odd scenes we knew had to go in somewhere.
Until the time she was in too much pain to write any more. But she did make me promise to finish the book. Add as much as was needed, but finish it.
So I did.
This is the result of our collaboration.
I have two hopes … okay, three.
One, you enjoy it,
Two. you can’t see the seams,
Three, we sell lots and lots and lots and give Doria a fabulous bestseller send off.
When Isla Campbell leaves her so-called Dom, she is determined never to sub again. All she wants is her tattoo removed and to live a quiet life with no dominant, or domineering men in it.
Until she meets Gaspar MacDonald, tattoo artist and unbeknown to her, a bear shifter.
Isla calls to Gaspar in the most basic of ways, he knows she is his mate.
Now all he has to do is persuade Isla of that fact. Oh and explain he’s a Dom, and a shifter, and that subbing for your Dom is not what she thought it was, but much better.
Will Isla trust him enough to discover if they have what would be the perfect match?
Story Excerpt
I didn’t get a chance to answer. I was too busy trying not to come as he kissed and then sucked my nipples, and saints above, began to play with my clit. Oh Lordy, so bloody good. I think I moaned, but to be honest, I was drowning in the sensation so I had no idea.
Somehow, I managed to find his cock and stroke it. It was Noah’s turn to moan now.
“Fuck it, I want to be in you. Need to be in you, and I’ve no bloody condoms.” He moved away a bit and I took advantage of the fact to get onto my knees, take his cock into my mouth, and lave it.
Not a boy scout then.
“On the pill,” I mumbled around a mouthful of hot, hard, but soft as silk, male flesh. “Clean, and fuck it, fill me.” I took one long hard pull on his dick and let go with a plop. Better than an ice lolly any day.
Noah didn’t hesitate, thank goodness, and had me on my back and his cock poised at the entrance to my channel faster than I could say climax.
“Got to be now, love.”
Just as well.
He pushed. I clenched my inner muscles—thank goodness for Kegel exercises—and held him tight. Noah swore and laughed. I grinned and we set up that age-old motion of in, out, tighten, release until I felt him swell even more inside me.
My nipples hurt in the best possible way.
“Sheesh, now got to be, oh Lord, help please…” I was almost incoherent, sobbing, throbbing, and any other ing you could mention. It was pleasure, it was pain, it was…
“Now!” Noah roared, and his hot, sticky release filled me.
“Yes.” I let myself fly and saw stars as my climax hit me with all the subtlety of a baseball hit by a champion.
Yeah, I was a screamer. Did I care? Not one bit. I moaned, groaned, and wriggled as well. Loved it all.
Where to Buy
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About the Authors
Raven McAllan
Raven lives in Scotland, along with her husband and their two cats — their children having flown the nest — surrounded by beautiful scenery, which inspires a lot of the settings in her books.
She is used to sharing her life with the occasional deer, red squirrel, and lost tourist, to say nothing of the scourge of Scotland — the midge.
Her very understanding and long-suffering DH, is used to his questions unanswered, the dust bunnies greeting him as he walks through the door, and rescuing burned offerings from the Aga. (And passing her a glass of wine as she types furiously.)
Website | Blog | Raven’s Facebook | Author Page on Facebook | Twitter
Doris O’Connor
Doris is a writer of sensual, sassy, and sexy tales involving alpha heroes to die for, and heroines who give as good as they get. From contemporary to paranormal, Sci-fi, BDSM, M/M, and Ménage, haunting love stories are guaranteed.
Website | Twitter | Facebook | Pinterest | Instagram | Evernight Publishing
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Let’s Get Healthy: Day Forty-nine (AKA Why Having A Writing Tribe Is Good) #romancefit
Time on Treadmill: 30 minutes.
Productivity level: Surprisingly high.
One of the useful things about belonging to a crack writing group is that 1) you can trust them to tell you the truth about your latest magnum opus, 2) you can rely on them to find ways to help you around stuck spots, and 3) you can brainstorm with them when you just don’t know what to do about a plot.
So, as you know (Bob), I’m working on Uncertainty Principle, which is the second book in my Pacifica Rising series. The first book, Degree of Resistance, was different from all of my other genre romance novels because it contained a hefty amount of SF, so much so that it kinda scared off the romance readers who didn’t understand why I put so much tech in there (and the SF readers said, “Is this a kissing book? Ew”). Mind you, Degree has gotten fantastic reviews from review sites, but it hasn’t sold very well because of that hefty SF element. Even the editor for that book said, “You know, this isn’t a Nicola book, despite the romance. It’s a Melanie book.”
And here I am, noodling around with the sequel. I’ve been trying to shoehorn in more romance (Evie and Ben are still the main couple, but there’s a secondary romance with security guard Rob and a refugee from another protectorate who turns out to be an assassin assigned to kill Ben and his daughter), but it’s not working. I just can’t get the book fired up, even though I know the plot pretty well, because I also have to deal with Ben’s incipient PTSD from being under chancellor control for twelve years and Evie’s discovery about her parents’ relationship with her nominal boss) . So I explained it to my writing group, and they all agreed that once again this is not a Nicola book, it’s a Melanie book, and I shouldn’t worry too much about making it an SF romance novel and just make it a romantic SF novel (where there’s a romantic side plot but the SF is the core of the story). And I think I’m going to have to do that because otherwise it just doesn’t work. Pity I can’t market the series as Melanie Fletcher now, but it’s a little too late for that.
Let’s Get Healthy: Day Forty-eight (AKA Well, Today Was Productive) #romancefit
Time on Treadmill: 30 minutes.
Pain level: Knees are not happy, but they’re not at shiv level.
Gracious, I got a lot of stuff done today. Did promo for both books and jewelry, washed three loads of laundry, made a cabochon prong setting for a pendant, loaded a bunch of new jewelry into my Etsy site, shamelessly pimped To My Muse on Instagram, critiqued three chapters for a member of my writers group and spent an hour there eating Chinese food and going over the critiques, then came home and got my thirty minutes in on the treadmill. And while I was cooling off, I got a wild hair to see if I could put together a draft cover for the fourth novella in the Shifter Woods series (all four novellas will then be put into a box set, to be followed with a full-length novel sometime next year).
I kinda like the draft — still need to tweak some stuff, but it should work. The plot so far: single mom and cougar shifter Denise Elgin gets drawn into danger on Sandia Crest when a drug cartel head’s pet tiger gets loose during a gas stop and takes off into the woods. An accidental meeting while on a hike reveals that the “wild animal” is undercover FBI agent Marco Santos, a tiger shifter who’s been gathering evidence to bring the cartel down. Both Marco and Denise are shocked to discover they’re mates, but before they can indulge themselves they first need to evade the cartel’s men and make it back to civilization.
And now, I must take a shower and hit the sack. Until tomorrow, my chums.
Let’s Get Healthy: Day Forty-seven (AKA How My Brain Works) #romancefit
Time on Treadmill: 30 minutes.
Sinus condition: Seriously better after two neti pot sessions.
If I won the Powerball tomorrow, I would make a movie. No, I’m not talking about To My Muse, although I’d like to produce that at some point as well.
No, I would like to get some of my favorite actors together and let them do their thing. Here’s the plot as it stands — a former bassist in a well-known 70’s rock band (Louis Herthum) is now giving lessons in a NOLA music store, having a lethargic affair with the owner (Angela Bassett), and playing with local bands to pay the rent. To his bemusement, the band’s former manager (Brent Spiner) shows up one day at the store with an unrefusable offer — a current rock darling (Miley Cyrus) who is a huge fan of the band wants them to play with her at a major music festival. Manager also has the band’s drummer (Paul Guilfoyle) and his granddaughter (Priah Ferguson) in tow — the drummer is on the lam from the Boston mob due to a gambling debt.
Armed with a tour bus that has seen better days and equipment lent by the NOLA music store owner, bassist, drummer, and granddaughter go on the road to reunite the band for one last gig. Needless to say, this isn’t easy because the keyboardist (Jeffrey Combs) is newly retired from being a high school music teacher and just wants to stay home (his wife, however, wants him out of the house because he’s driving her nuts). I have a scene in my head where the bassist and drummer are standing on the keyboardist’s porch and knock on the door. Keyboardist opens it, takes one look at them, and slams it shut.
Bassist: (looks at drummer) That went well. (knocks on door again) Come on, man, open up.
Keyboardist: (muffled) Go away.
Bassist: Seriously, let us in. We’ve got a gig, a paying one. Rock Star Darling wants us to open for her.
Keyboardist: (muffled) Not interested.
Bassist: We’re talking a hundred grand.
Drummer: Minus Manager’s cut.
Bassist: (dirty look at Drummer) Really? You’re gonna do this now?
Keyboardist: (muffled) I’m calling the cops.
Drummer: (smirks) You know what we have to do.
Bassist: (sighs) Jeez. Okay.
They promptly start singing “If I Fell In Love With You” at the top of their lungs until the keyboardist lets them in.
Oh, and the lead guitarist (John Bishop) is a recovering alcoholic living with his daughter in Arkansas. They manage to get almost everyone on the bus, but the lead singer (Woody Harrelson), who is the bassist’s younger brother, has a sweet residency in Vegas and is not about to give it up. At that point an enforcer from Boston (Rory McCann) finally tracks them down, and the bassist fast-talks him into waiting until after the gig for the money — in exchange, he can tag along with them to guarantee that his boss gets paid (and maybe haul gear because hey, he’s big and strong). During a rehearsal warm, they find out that the enforcer can sing and press-gang him into the band. When Brother finds out he’s been replaced, he gets pissed off…
And that’s about as far as I’ve gotten (I think the band originally broke up because the bassist stole his brother’s girlfriend and the guitarist OD’ed, but I’m not sure about that) but it’s keeping me entertained while I clean.
Let’s Get Healthy: Day Forty-six (AKA One Of Those Days) #romancefit
Time on Treadmill: 30 minutes.
Exhaustion level: Better after my three-hour nap
Sometimes it helps to remind myself that I’ve done things like the parking job pictured at left. That’s in a British rental car, mind you, so it’s the “wrong” side of the road for me and there were literally less than eight inches of space between my car and the other two when I was done. Ramón was so astounded, he insisted that I take this picture for posterity to prove that I can achieve the impossible.
On days like this, I need that reminder. The day was not nearly as rewarding as I would have liked (no fault on anyone for this — it was just the nature of the venue), and the one book I sold pretty much paid for my gas, lunch, and drink on the way home. Oh, wait, I had to pay tolls, as well. So I was out of pocket on this event.
On the other hand, I managed to come home. Eighteen people who went to a Walmart in El Paso didn’t. So in the grander scheme of things I had a pretty damn good day. Also, please support background checks for gun purchases because this shit is out of control.
Let’s Get Healthy: Day Forty-five (AKA AHHHHHHHHHHHHH) #romancefit
Time on Treadmill: 30 minutes.
Stress level: Would punch Misha Collins.
I love Misha, I really do. He’s a good man who does stuff for so many people and works so hard to be a force for love and good in the world. But if he showed up now and asked me to join GISH with that delightfully goofy smile of his, I’m afraid violence would follow.
To attend any sort of writing conference, I normally bring all of my books, my Nicola Cameron banner, a bank (cash so that I can sell the books in case people want some), stands for the books, a business card holder, a sign indicating how much the books are so that people don’t have to ask, and a tablecloth.
For a writing conference that’s also allowing me to sell my jewelry, I have to do all of the above PLUS sort out which pieces I’m going to bring, put chains on all the silver pendants because people seem more likely to buy them if they’re ready to wear, write prices on tags and attach them to each piece, load up all the jewelry, the display equipment, my tools in case I need to adjust something on the fly, and the makings for copper Viking knit tubes so that I can sit there and demonstrate how it’s done (since I’m supposed to be talking about making jewelry to anyone who comes to my table).
I managed to melt an earring last night and a bezel today, I’m dripping with sweat from working in a freaking hot garage, I have maybe 95% of the stuff that I need for the show packed, I still have to go upstairs and get the Viking knit stuff and print off business cards for both me and Belaurient Arts, and somehow I have to get to sleep before midnight because I need to be up at 6 AM in order to leave the house at 7:15 AM to get to Burleson, TX by 8:30 AM to set up my table. Crap, and I need to make sure I have clean clothes ready for tomorrow as well, bugger.
Still managed to get my time in, though, so that’s something.
Nicola Cameron Writes 