Today is a little different. In order to help Marci Boudreaux launch her new release I opened up today for her. Enjoy her excerpt and enter the contest!
Thank you for having me, Lizzie.
This book wasn’t intended to
introduce my Stonehill Romance series. In fact, when I wrote this there was no
series. My editor, who was at the time working on what became the second
release in this series, sent me an e-mail breaking down what I had
unintentionally done: started a series.
My release schedule as planned for
now is to have a new Stonehill Romance out every three to four months through
2016.
This is unchartered territory for
me. I’ve never gone into writing with a plan. I’m a fly by the seat of my pants
kind of writer, so we’ll have to sit back and see how this plays out. It should
be interesting!
Until then, let me take a few more
minutes of your time to introduce you to Harry and Kara.
Excerpt:
Kara
squeezed her way toward the crowded bar, nudging between two kids who she
couldn’t quite believe were old enough to be legally drinking in public.
Shouldn’t they be funneling cheap beer in a college dorm somewhere? Or sneaking
shots from Daddy’s liquor cabinet?
Art
gallery openings used to be much more sophisticated than this. When she was a
young artist, openings were about appreciating the art and the artist, not the
free booze.
Shit.
Had
she really gone there? Kara shook her head at her bitter thoughts.
The
bartender, a walking tattoo with spiked black hair, leaned close so she could
hear him. “What’ll it be?”
She
realized all she wanted was wine. And quiet. The kids around her were acting
more like pre-teens jacked up on sugar than art aficionados. One made a face,
squished and reddened, as he held up an empty shot glass as proof of his
triumph.
She
wondered when she had gotten so damned old. She never used to snub her nose at
a good drink. Actually, she completely understood what her problem was, and it
had nothing to do with age. She’d conformed. She’d fallen into line. She’d done
what she was supposed to do. Agent? Check. Gallery opening? Check. Interviews
with all the local fancy-pants magazines? Check.
But
this wasn’t her. None of this was her.
Frowning,
she leaned in as well, making sure he heard her over the jeering of the kids
next to her. “Tequila.” Within seconds he set a glass in front of her and
filled it with amber liquid. He started to walk away but she held up one hand
and lifted the glass with the other. She downed the drink, slammed the glass
down, and gestured for another—one shot wasn’t nearly enough to numb the misery
of this evening.
The
young man lifted his brows and smirked as he gave her another shot. He
laughed as she motioned for him to fill the glass a third time. “I can’t do
this all night, lady.”
“One
more.”
“Some
of the crap in here costs more than my car. No puking. Got it?”
Kara
chuckled. Clearly he didn’t recognize her as the artist who had made the crap.
“Honey, I was doing tequila shots before your daddy dropped his pants and made
you.”
The
barkeep threw his head back and laughed, then filled her glass one more time.
“Nice one, babe.”
Babe?
Kara snorted as she lifted the glass. It was almost to her lips when a hand squeezed
her shoulder.
“Kara?”
asked a deep, smooth voice as if the man wasn’t certain who he was touching.
She
turned. Her eyes bulged as she looked into an intense dark gaze she hadn’t seen
since the night she’d lost her virginity.
The
music had been loud, the beer lukewarm, and everybody who was anybody—and
several nobody’s like Kara and Harry—in their senior class of Stonehill High
was at the graduation party. The only person she had cared about, though,
didn’t care about her. Or so she’d thought. Until she’d somehow ended up on
Shannon Blake’s disgustingly pink- and ruffle-covered bed with Harry Canton,
book club president and algebra superstar, clumsily removing her clothes,
leaving slobbery kisses in their wake.
Kara
swallowed hard as the flash of a memory faded, and the man standing before her,
looking as shocked as she felt, came back into view.
She
downed the liquor, slammed the glass against the bar, and sighed before she
announced, “I’ve been looking for you for twenty-seven years.”
He
sank onto the vacant stool next to her and lifted his hands as if he were at a
loss for words. Something that appeared to be guilt filled his eyes and made
his full lips sag into a frown. She’d be damned if temptation didn’t hit her as
hard as it had when she was a hormonal teen.
“I
wanted to tell you I was leaving,” he said, “but I didn’t know how.”
“You
should have tried something like, ‘Kara, I’m leaving.’”
“You’re
right. But I was a kid. I didn’t have a lot of common sense. All I could think
about was how I finally had my freedom.”
She
tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him. “You had your freedom? You
selfish prick.”
His
eyes widened. “Well, that might be a little harsh. I was just a kid, Kara. Yes,
I should have told you I had no intention of staying with you, but I was a
little overwhelmed by what had happened. I’m sorry.”
“You’re
sorry?”
Harry’s
shoulders slumped, as if he had given up justifying sneaking out on her in the
middle of the night. “Look, I saw a flier for your gallery opening, and I
wanted to say hello. I thought maybe… I don’t know what I was thinking.” He
sounded hurt, dejected even. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He
stood. She put her hand to his chest and shoved him back onto the barstool. The
move instantly reminded of her their one night together. All of seventeen and
totally inexperienced, she’d fancied herself a seductress and pushed him on the
bed before straddling his hips like she had a clue what she was doing.
Touching
his chest now, warmth radiated through her entire body.
She
glared, pulling her hand away and squeezing her fingers into a fist. “Are you
living in Seattle?”
He
shook his head. “I had a conference in town. There were fliers at the hotel. As
soon as I saw your picture, I knew I had to come.” His smile returned and
excitement oozed from his face. “I can’t believe you have a gallery opening.
This is amazing, Kare.”
She
wasn’t nearly as thrilled by her accomplishment as he seemed to be. She felt
like she was selling her soul instead of her art. She’d always preferred to go
the indie route, but that crap agent had cornered her at a particularly
vulnerable moment and convinced her she needed him…just like he convinced her
she needed to be in a gallery. Although, now she was glad she’d conceded on the
open bar.
The
tequila swirled through her, making her muscles tingle, preventing her from
fully engaging the near-three decades of anger she’d been harboring. She had
spent an awfully long time wanting to give Harry Canton a piece of her mind.
Even
so, hearing him say she’d done something amazing warmed her in a way very
little ever had. If he had come looking for another one-night stand, she hated
to admit that she would consider reliving that night again—only this time with
more sexual experience and less expectation of him sticking around.
He
might be almost three decades older, but his face was still handsome and his
brown eyes were just as inviting as they had been when he was a high school
prodigy and she was a wallflower.
She
smirked at a realization: he was in a suit, probably having just left a
corporate meeting, while she was wearing a red sari-inspired dress at her
gallery opening.
He
was still the straight arrow. She was still the eccentric artist.
“Did
you hear what I said, Harry? About looking for you for the last twenty-seven
years.”
His
shoulders sagged. “I never meant to sleep with you that night. I mean”—he
quickly lifted his hands—“I was leaving and should have told you before taking
you upstairs. I shouldn’t have just left like that, but I didn’t think you
wanted to see me again anyway. If it’s any consolation,” he said giving her a
smile that softened the rough edges of her anger, “I’d been working up the
courage to kiss you since junior year when you squeezed a tube of red paint in
Mitch Friedman’s hair after he made jokes about Frida Kahlo’s eyebrows in art
class.”
She
frowned at him. That hadn’t been her finest hour. Then again, neither was
waking up thinking she was starting a new life as a high school graduate and
the girlfriend of the cutest boy she’d ever met, only to find the other side of
the homecoming queen’s bed empty. “There’s nothing wrong with a woman embracing
her natural beauty.”
His
smile faded quickly. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding sincere. “I shouldn’t have
left you like I did. I hope you believe that I regret it. Not being with you,”
he amended, “but leaving without explaining.”
She
laughed softly. He’d had that same nervous habit in high school. He’d say what
was on his mind and then instantly try to recover, afraid his words had come
out wrong. Usually they had. For as awkward as she’d been, at least she’d
always been able to say what she meant and to stand behind it. Of course, that
ability got her in trouble more often than not.
She’d
told herself a million times that Harry didn’t owe her an explanation. They
hadn’t been in any kind of relationship. She’d drooled over him from afar, but
other than an occasional smile in the hallway, he’d barely acknowledged her
existence in high school. Even if he hadn’t gone off to start his Ivy League
college career the day after graduation, he likely never would have looked at
her again. Well, at least not until she could no longer hide the truth of their
one-night stand from the world.
“I
expected so much more from you, Harry,” she said sadly, the sting of what he’d
done back then numbed slightly by the tequila.
His
shoulders sagged a bit. “I know.”
“Why
didn’t you ever write me back?” Her voice sounded hurt and pathetic. She was
surprised that after so many years of being angry, there was still pain hiding
beneath her fury. “I must have sent you a hundred letters.”
He
creased his brow. “Letters? I didn’t get any letters.”
Kara
searched his eyes. He looked genuinely confused.
“I
sent them to…” Her words faded. Suddenly the tequila-induced haze wasn’t so
welcome. “Your mother said if I wrote to you, she’d make sure you got my
letters.”
“My
mother? I never got any letters.”
“But
you sent money.”
Harry
shook his head slightly. “What the hell are you talking about? Why would I send
you money?”
She
stared at him as realization set in. He hadn’t responded to her letters because
he hadn’t received her letters. And if he hadn’t received the letters, he
hadn’t sent her money. And if he hadn’t sent her money, he hadn’t known that
she needed it. Sighing, she let some of her decades-old anger slip. Her head
spun, either from the alcohol or the blurry dots she was trying to mentally
connect. Leaning onto the bar, she exhaled slowly. “She never told you, did
she?”
“Told
me what?”
Kara
couldn’t speak. Her words wouldn’t form.
An
arm wrapped around Kara’s shoulder, startling her and making her gasp quietly.
She turned and blinked several times at the man who had just slid next to her.
“Sorry
to interrupt,” he said, “but I need to get home.” Leaning in, he kissed her
head. “Congratulations on the opening, Mom. It was great.”
“Um…”
She swallowed, desperate to find her voice. “Thank you, sweetheart.” She
flicked her gaze at the man sitting next to her. The longer Harry looked at her
son, the wider Harry’s eyes became.
Phil
cast a disapproving glance at Harry then focused on his mother again. “Don’t
forget that Jess is expecting you to make pancakes in the morning. You
promised.”
“I
haven’t forgotten.” Kara returned her attention to Harry. His jaw was slack and
his cheeks had grown pale.
Phil
nodded at Harry as if he were satisfied that he’d made the point that his
mother didn’t need to be staying out all night and walked away. Harry watched
him leave while Kara waved down the bartender and pointed at her glass. The
tattooed kid hesitated, likely debating the ethics of giving her another shot.
She pointed again, cocking a brow for emphasis, and he finally filled her
glass.
“Kara…”
Harry’s voice was breathless, like he’d been kicked in the gut. “Was…was that
my…son?”
No.
His mother definitely hadn’t given him the letters Kara had written. She
lifted her shot, toasting him. “Congratulations, Harry. It’s a boy.”
