Party Time Wayne, Party on Garth!

Hey everyone,

I'm starting off my summer with an awesome trip to Ocean City on Tuesday, free of all technology, work, and with lots of delicious drinks. My plan is to lounge in the sun, visit the island with the ponies, eat a lot of good food and push thoughts of deadlines out of my head for a couple days. While I'm daydreaming about my vacation it's sort of fun that I'm a part of the Wet and Wild Bloghop while I'm getting ready to get down and dirty with my girlfriends. The best vacations are the ones where I don't bring my laptop, I like to work too much.

What's your ideal vacation or one you really enjoyed recently? Because I work as a full time writer I can take time off whenever I like--what winds up happening more often than not is that I don't take a vacation, period. Mostly because I work myself much harder than any full time job would.

Here's a snippet of my latest work in progress where my heroine is forced into a relationship rehab after she catches her picture perfect fiancee cheating on her abroad by webcam. A vacation she in now way wants--until she meets the owner's brother.

Wait.
A prickle of apprehension tickled her lower back making her pulse push harder against her temples.     How had she gotten on the couch? The man from last night—this sure as shit didn’t look like any spa she’d ever set foot in—and she’d been to a lot courtesy of a picky mother. No pamphlets lying out on the coffee table, no check-in desk to welcome guests, no banner proclaiming some kind of healthy living promotion. Not even a measly vase of fresh cut flowers.
All in all, the room was exactly like any other beach house living room she’d ever been in, except for the lack of chipping paint, and the sweet, tart scent of apples. Maybe her mother had given the driver the wrong address? Because this house didn’t have enough rooms that she could see to even begin to cover a spa’s wellness needs. Without another thought, she eased her head between her legs taking deep breaths.
“So the cooking did wake you up? Good, I was wondering how long I’d have to deal with your snoring. Anyone tell you your nasal passages sound like the engine room of the Titanic?”
“Who are you?” she accused, sitting up fast enough that she clawed at her knees with her fingernails to keep her vision from clouding over.
“I’m the guy who saved your ass last night. I’m also your host for the next three days. And I made food. Looks like you won the morning lottery.” He smirked.
He placed down two steaming plates on the coffee table in the front of her, throwing the towels he used for potholders across the room. At least the man knew world class hangover food. In front of them sat two plates piled high with pancakes, fresh berries, whipped cream, and six slices of bacon each on the side. Someone liked their protein, though she couldn’t blame him. Bacon was totally a food group.
“Look’s good.”
“Well, you paid to be here. Part of the job description to feed you.”
“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine in the morning.”
She cracked her neck and winced.
“Sorry, you get what you get until Polly comes back.” He shrugged.
“Polly?”
She drew her gaze away from the mouthwatering food long enough to frown. Taking a good, solid look at his face brought back a tangle of memories from last night. But a majority of them took a backseat while she studied the handsome stranger slash possible kidnapper.    Her impression of him last night hadn’t been too off—he was as tall as a damn lumberjack, at least 6’4. Lean and well-built, what her mother’s trainer would call “naturally thin and trim” with confidence in his words that didn’t play out in his body language.
He dug his hands firmly into a pair of wrinkled, faded jeans. A fawn colored cable knit sweater brought out his large, walnut brown eyes. Thin, black wire frame glasses, dark stubble, and a wiry mass of unruly black hair completed the librarian look. From head to toe he was geek chic, down to bare feet that, thankfully, were perfectly manicured. His eyes shot back and forth, gaze never landing during her scrutiny, mouth tilted down in a frown.
“I should go get the orange juice,” he cleared his throat, turned on his heel, and walked through the door she assumed went into the kitchen.
If she looked at him in the right light, with his glasses off, his high cheekbones and long eyelashes made him look akin to a leading man she’d seen in a Shakespeare movie a while ago. A play of Romeo and Juliet with one of those waifish, blonde actresses dressing up as a man. All the while she was secretly playing the leading man’s muse. Not much else rang a bell.
Chloe shrugged and picked up her fork. What was the harm in chowing down and then calling a cab to drive her to the nearest airport? If she played it safe for the next week she should have enough money in her savings to get her back to NYC safe and sound. No way could her host argue, because he didn’t exactly seem thrilled to have company. She heard the slap of male feet on the hardwood as she tucked the first delicious bite into her mouth.
“Here we are.”
He put two garish plastic cups advertising some Atlantic City hotel on the table.
“Who’s Polly?” Chloe re-asserted her previous question covering her mouth full of pancakes.
“My sister. She runs this place.”
“And this place would be…what?”
“You’re all paid up for three days and you don’t know where you are? Seriously?”
“Looks that way.”
He cocked his head to the side, licked his lips, and shrugged. Watching him uncurl from his place in the large, overstuffed club chair was kind of an Olympian feat. But it wasn’t nearly as entertaining as watching his tight, delicious ass while he headed back into the kitchen with a finger raised over his shoulder. One moment. Yeah, with these pancakes half-way devoured, she might not have many more of those left before it was time to skedaddle.   
He strolled back through swinging kitchen door with a smile on his face a mile wide. Which was kind of nice. Okay, his pearly whites were a little more than nice. Mainly because his eyes lit up behind his glasses, leaving her wobbly knees in the pudding spectrum. But was lusting after some rebound really in her best interest right now? Not when she was making tracks the minute that last bite of syrupy deliciousness coursed down her throat.
Chloe nodded to herself, decided, while he slapped a pale pink flyer down on top of the coffee table next to her plate. His knuckles were sprinkled with tiny, golden hairs. Her gaze tracked back to the flyer as if she’d been caught sneaking a glance.
Without further comment she watched out of the corner of her eye as he deftly folded himself back up into the chair and took his plate into his lap. How it all fit together in the small space must have been a balancing wonder revered by the circus. She shot him a half-smile and tucked in the last bite of pancake moving onto the bacon.


Answer my question with your email address and I'll send you two books of your choosing, from my backlist to my current releases. The grand prize for the hop is:

To refer back to the rest of the bloghop, please go HERE.