This morning I want to welcome W. Lynn Chantale, a lovely author that I met through Still Moments Publishing. She's here to talk about her newly released short, Decadent Seconds. Now, I haven't had the opportunity to read her new piece, but Mistletoe Mamba, her contribution to Christmas Treats: Santa's Naughty List has one of the hottest tango scenes I've ever read. Yum! Lynn has been gracious enough to host me on her blog a couple of times, despite my PG rating, and now I'm thrilled to have her here. Please welcome her and check out her newest work.
Peace,
Liv
PS - Lynn's promised to give away a $15 gift card to one lucky person from the comments. It's a winner's choice card - Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or ARe. So let us know you've been here, okay?
Hi Liv, thanks so much for hosting me today. I can keep things
PG. :-)
Why I Own a Potato Peeler ...
Until last year I never owned a
potato/vegetable peeler. I’ve always used a knife, paring, steak whatever to
peel potatoes. Stay with me here, because I’ve got to explain something. I’m
also a sucker for sharp knives, I have a degree in culinary arts and the first
thing I learned was sharp knives require less force to use. So I purchased a
three knives ( a paring, a chef’s knife and a cleaver) from an extremely
reputable company and eagerly waited for them to arrive in the mail.
Knives arrive. I can’t wait. Yes, I know
they’re sharp I watched the demo where a penny was cut in half and then a sheet
of paper. Oh yeah that sharp. So I peel my first potato cradled in the palm of
my left hand as I’ve always done. No problem. Quarter the sucker. No big. Yes,
I’m taking my time, my eyes never leave my task. The second potato slips while
I’m quartering, but nothing major.
So third potato, yep potato slips while
I’m quartering and I slice a two inch gash in my left index finger. I know some
of you already figured out where this was going, but geesh... I’ve got to tell
it. The first words out of my mouth were “I need to go to urgent care.”
While my sons and husband are panicking.
I love them dearly, but I’m the only calm rational one at the moment, despite
laughing my fool head off. My then 16 y/o son whips the car around likes he’s
been driving everyday for the last 20 years and off we go to the emergency
clinic.
So now I have 6 or 7 stitches in my poor
finger, but I can still type. I know I should’ve been more concerned about that
cut. What can I say, I’m a writer. When I come back for follow up the doctor
learns I have some numbness in my finger. Let’s just say when I cut something I
do very well. I severed the tendon and a nerve. Please, no applause. Did you
know the interior of the finger has all the nerves? I do. So outpatient
surgery, 4 weeks in a cast, 4 months of physical therapy and my finger is good
as new. Almost.
I know you’re dying to know if I still
own that knife. Yes, I do. For a few months my youngest would hide it from me.
Do I use it? Of course, but now I slice and quarter potatoes on a cutting
board.
As for the potato peeler, the kids use
it.
When I’m not testing the sharpness of
knives, I can be found
Until next time, Indulge Your Inner
Romantic.
Blurb:
As a caterer, Darling
gets to witness some of life’s happiest moments, but yearns for a marriage
proposal of her own. After years of waiting on her beloved to pop the
question, she gives up on ever having a happy ending of her own and severs
the relationship. When she learns she’s pregnant, she has no choice but to
face her child’s father on a daily basis as well as the love and attraction
she has for him.
Darryl Manning always
believed Darling would be his forever. After all he didn’t need a piece of
paper to show her how much he loved her, but when she leaves him to pursue
her dream of owning a catering company and raising his son, he may have to
rethink his views on marriage. That is if he wants a second chance at family.
|
Excerpt:
Drunken laughter floated just above the thrumming bass line
of Lenny Kravitz’s Are You Gonna Go My Way, competing with the steady buzz of
conversation. Soft pastel strobe lights flickered through the muted
illumination. Darlene Williams, or “Darling” as she was known to friends and
associates, surveyed the banquet hall full of guests.
She heaved a sigh as she glimpsed a swirl of ivory on the
dance floor. For one wistful moment, where fairytales glowed bright and rosy,
she imagined her own wedding. Her fairytale didn’t have a happy ending. She
sighed again. Or a beginning.
A familiar face bobbed in the crowd, and her breath hitched.
Twice he tried to take her picture, and she was determined he wouldn’t succeed.
His gaze found hers, and her heartbeat matched the pounding bass line. He
turned away, and she focused on a set of broad, muscular shoulders. She could
spend hours smoothing her hands over his brawn. When he found her again, the
corners of his mouth creased, and a familiar tingle crackled through her veins.
Just once she’d like to not react when she saw him. Despite
the warmth knocking at the wall of her heart, Darling followed his movements to
a group of similarly clad women. When they clustered around him, he raised his
Nikon to his rugged face.
She loved his face, all angles and planes, and all that
sharpness melted away when he smiled. Sadness and longing wiggled through a
crack in her wall and squeezed her heart. They weren’t meant to be. Still she
stared after him, envying the way he leaned close to one woman and lowered his
camera. He gave a nod before moving away. When he passed beneath a wall sconce,
the warm glow gave his smooth brown skin the fine sheen of melted chocolate. He
should’ve been out of place in his black polo shirt and khaki slacks as he
moved among the tuxedoes and long dresses, but his sexy smirk and camera made
things easy.
The discordant clash of a body colliding with cymbals and
snare drum drew Darling’s attention toward the dais next to the dance floor. A
glassy-eyed young man in a tux tried to untangle his limbs from the instrument
without spilling his drink. Succeeding, he then lurched onto the crowded dance
floor and crashed into a couple of dancers. She shook her head when he sprawled
on the floor, still trying to drink from the glass in his hand.
Not her problem. Darling regarded the decimated buffet, the
food reduced to crumbs and half-dried globs of gravy—this was her problem.
Swiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, she lifted her gaze
again, this time scanning the room for the tall, sexy photographer. He was now
taking pictures of the drunk on the floor. Good, she didn’t want to run into
him or his camera again. Turning, she hefted the silver chafer by the handles
and placed it on the rolling cart behind her.
She reached for the next chafer, moving the serving spoon
aside when strong hands seized her shoulders. The spoon slipped from her grasp,
splattering white sauce on her black slacks, before settling on the floor. A
sensuous chuckle tickled her ear, sending warmth scurrying through her veins,
and puckering her nipples. Yanking free, she spun around to glare into dark
chocolate eyes. She shoved the owner of those eyes and straightened her
clothes. He laughed softly, his gaze drifting leisurely over her white chef’s coat
and work pants.
Darryl Manning, the sexy photographer, grabbed her hand and
gently tapped the thick bandage wrapped around her index finger. “What did you
do to your finger?” She tugged her hand from his grasp, wincing when she
smacked the digit on the chafer. “I cut it.” She bent to retrieve the spoon
from the floor, straightened, and placed the utensil in a gray plastic tub.
Darling wiped her hands on a towel. Darryl folded well-toned
arms across his broad chest, the black knit shirt he wore strained to
accommodate the expansion of muscle. She stifled a groan and the urge to run
her fingers along the bulging biceps and perfect pecs. Why did her body pick
today to rebel? “I don’t have time for this now,” she snapped, “What do you
have time for?” His rich baritone conjured nights of hot, steamy sex and
decadent morning afters. He lifted his camera, with a sexy smirk. “Maybe a
photo or two?”
She resisted the seductive note in his voice and placed her
hand on the lens. “I’m working.”
“And I’m not, just finished.” He stepped closer, the heat of
his body instantly warming hers. Darling tilted her head back to maintain eye
contact.
She studied his face, waiting for the familiar ache and
longing to subside. It didn’t. Being this close to him, surrounded by his scent,
a little soap and a whole lot of male, made her yearn to be in his arms, to
feel his full lips against hers. What was she doing? She couldn’t think about
him, about them. She moved away. Not today.
Darling turned as the click-click-click of his camera captured
her. Huffing, she stalked toward the kitchen. She caught the attention of Pete,
one of her chefs for the evening. “Could you finish breaking down the buffet
table while I take care of this?” She jerked a thumb to the hunk at her heels.
Light flashed in her face, momentarily blinding her, and she held a hand to her
eyes, blinking to clear her vision. “Don’t do that!”
Moving through the kitchen to a narrow staircase, she heaved
a sigh as the pulsing rock music faded to a dull roar. Darling entered her
office and smiled at the young man seated in a chair. “Thanks, Denny,” she
said. He was another employee, and she waited until he closed the door.
Darling knelt next to a car seat and dropped a kiss on the
sleeping infant’s cheek. White light zigzagged before her eyes. “Stop it!” she
said.
“But you’re so beautiful,” Darryl said.
Her stomach did a slow somersault at the compliment, but he
would need more than pretty words and his handsome face to woo her.
Straightening, she shoved a diaper bag in his general direction. “I have two
more weddings, a funeral, and an awards banquet. You trying to flirt is not on
today’s calendar!”
Darryl offered her a smile and her knees turned to jelly.
The man would be the death of her. The only reason she still spoke to him was
the sleeping toddler. If not for the baby, she’d have kept walking and never
looked back.
She brushed a stray curl from her face and planted her hand
on her hip when Darryl didn’t move. “I know you may not have anything to do,
but I really need to get back downstairs,” she reminded him.
He stepped closer, reaching a hand to tug on the lock of
hair she had just swept away. She sucked in a breath, his clean masculine scent
beguiling her. Her gaze dropped to the open collar of his shirt. If she pressed
her mouth to his warm skin, would he moan? Darling lifted her head, and he met
her lips with a kiss. Too stunned to protest, she sank into his kiss, savoring
the spicy taste of him and the firmness of his lips. He skimmed the curve of
her spine with his hands before resting them at her hips. Drawing her closer,
he brought her against the hard line of his arousal. Desire exploded, and she
wiggled her hips in hopes of easing the sudden tension at the apex of her
thighs. As if sensing her need, he cupped her butt, shifting her slightly until
he was wedged between her legs.
Lightning arced through her veins as he settled more firmly
against her core. She gasped, and he deepened the kiss, tongues dueling in a
fevered dance. Tightening her arms around his neck, Darling relished the
sensations vibrating through her system, and decided to enjoy them.
Lifting his head, Darryl stared into her face. For once she
didn’t care if he knew how much she wanted him, her fingers stroked the nape of
his neck. She regarded him a moment before he brushed his lips across hers one
last time before stepping away.
“I like flirting with you.” He trailed his fingers down her
arm.
And with those few words he ruined the mood. She drew a
ragged breath into her lungs and shoved his hand aside. How could one little
kiss leave her so edgy and uncomfortable? She couldn’t give in to the demands
of her body. She needed a clear head.
