And the winners are: Kiersi and Nona!! Congratulations.
Have you ever wondered where the men come from in stories? I know I often wonder about the brain behind the hunk and today we have a huge treat! Vonnie Davis, a very entertaining woman, is talking about the men who have popped in and out of her life – on paper that is. Kleenex might be necessary to keep drool off of your shirt or to wipe away tears as you laugh out loud at her experiences. Stick around to the end of the post and comment. Vonnie is giving away copies of her short story A Taste of Chocolate.
Get your comments in by Saturday the 9th at Midnight!!!! You don’t want to miss out your chance to win A Taste of Chocolate.
Take it away Vonnie!
I’m thrilled to visit with you today on Michelle’s blog. Who on earth is Vonnie Davis, you’re probably asking? Well, I’m a retired technical writer and an extra-fluffy grandma who also writes sweet to steamy romances. And I’m here to tell you the men just won’t leave me alone!
My heroes come to me at night when I am in that fragile, fluttery state between wakefulness and sleep. With them, they bring their stories. Take the cowboy who strutted into our bedroom wearing nothing but a Stetson, cowboy boots and a go-to-hell sneer. My snoring husband never noticed, but I was certainly all eyes. This “sighting” became the beginning to my award winning, debut novel, Storm’s Interlude.
One night a man on a Harley roared into our bedroom. When he uncurled his frame from the bike, I somehow knew he was wearing a prosthesis to replace the leg he’d lost in Iraq. He removed his helmet, sat on the edge of our bed and introduced himself as Win. He’d met a woman, you see, and wanted their story told, and it was in Those Violet Eyes.
Imagine my shock the night a tumbleweed blew into our bedroom followed by a huge man on horseback, a little boy settled on the saddle in front of him. His horse prancing and turning, the rider tipped his cowboy hat. “I need a mother for my son and a woman to warm my bed.” And Tumbleweed Letters was born.
I’d been tossing around the idea of writing a romantic suspense trilogy set in Paris, my favorite city. While I loosely plotted, I hoped my subconscious would once again be open to nocturnal male visits. One night when I was especially tired, our bedroom door slammed. I sat straight up in the bed. What was that? Thinking I was dreaming, I snuggled against hubs and was almost asleep when the door slammed again.
This time I saw the rascal—dark, wavy hair like a GQ model and mega doses of sex appeal. Niko told me he was second-in-command of the French counterterrorism unit and would do whatever he could to keep the women in his life safe—even me. Alrightie, then, one hero down…two to go. A couple months later, a man slowly coasted his motorcycle around and around our bed. He was dressed totally in black with alabaster angel wings flowing down his back. Jean-Luc flashed me a slow sexy-as-hell grin, and I was lost. Hero number three? Oh, he took longer to form. Until one night a man with a blond braid sat on the edge of our bed and plaid soulful notes of jazz on his saxophone, his eyes closed as he poured his soul into every note. Then Derrek opened his eyes—cobalt blue rimmed in black. “I’m here for you, Vonnie.” His voice was deep and gravelly as if he gargled with razor blades.
I’d read about an open anthology at Still Moments Publishing regarding a bit of magic and a matchmaker. Could I write something so “short” being the wordy soul I am? Declan came to me that night, holding purple roses. “They signify love at first sight,” he told me. “I’ll show you how to write my story in under twelve-thousand words.”
“Can’t be done.” I mean, it would take twelve-thousand words just to describe the magnetism of this ex-SEAL. Quite often my characters teach me valuable lessons. Declan taught me how to write short.
I’m giving away two copies of this short story, A Taste of Chocolate, to two lucky commenters. Just tell me your favorite color of roses and leave your email address.
Hope Morningstar has the worst luck with men. One boyfriend wrote her a “Dear John” letter while serving overseas. Her latest romantic interest broke up with her in a text. When a traffic detour puts her in an unfamiliar neighborhood, she stops at Freya’s Coffee Shop where she gets more than directions. She gets another chance at finding love.
Declan Fleming, scarred by a cheating ex-wife, has given up searching for love. He’s taken the route of a few other men and engaged the services of Freya, the matchmaker. Still, he’s been waiting for a year and he’s just about given up hope. Then Freya sends him Hope.
When feelings of insecurity and trust issues come into play, can finding love stand a chance? Can the magical influence of this matchmaker create a happy ending? After all, finding that one special love often involves a bit of special magic, does it not?
“A man’s kiss should taste like chocolate, dark flavor melting, doing sensual things to you.” Freya, the Matchmaker
Her stomach cramped, and she couldn’t seem to take one deep, complete breath. She eyed the paper bag she kept in her purse. If she hyper-ventilated, she’d need it. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God, I am freaking insane.
Once he came, if he came, she’d give him ten minutes, and then she was out of here. She didn’t care how good looking he was. Wait, she’d decided to go for content of character, not looks. This change in priorities would take time. Old habits were hard to break. Her gaze swept the area. With any luck he wouldn’t show.
“Don’t turn around.” A deep voice behind her sent chills up her spine. “I’m Declan, the man Freya sent. I know you’re scared, but don’t be. There’s no need.”
Why couldn’t she look at him? Was he butt-ugly? Short and fat? What? Remember, I’m not going to concentrate on his looks. I’m making wiser choices this time. I’m looking at the man on the inside, not the hunk on the outside. She exhaled a long, slow breath. “Okay.”
“Close your eyes for just a second.”
Oh, this was just too weird. Even so, she closed them. Something satiny soft rubbed over her cheek and she jerked. Roses. She smelled roses. Velvety softness caressed her chin.
“Rose petals are very soft, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” They were also very sensual when rubbed over her face. “I’m opening my eyes now.” Enough playing games. Every person in the food court had to be watching them.
“As you wish.” He held a small bouquet in front of her. “Purple roses are for love at first sight. Purple irises are the flower of hope.”
There were two purple roses and two irises snuggled in a bed of baby’s breath and tied with a pink ribbon. What a charming gesture. Don’t weaken. Be strong. Don’t let him suck you in.
“And the baby’s breath?” She’d yet to look at him, but took his sentimental offering from his calloused hand. “What does that flower mean?”
“Sincerity.” He stepped to her side, and her gaze lifted. “Hello, Hope. I’m Declan Fleming.” He extended his hand and she placed hers in his for a handshake. Something swift and searing zinged to her heart.
He had the most incredible blue eyes she’d ever seen. Not pale blue or sky blue, but cobalt.
Declan settled in the chair across from her. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me on such short notice.”
Something about his voice set her insides to trembling. She lifted the small bouquet to her nose and inhaled their heady fragrance, giving her nerves time to settle after that handshake—as if they could settle with those cobalt eyes taking her in. “Thank you for the flowers.”
“I thought if I showed a measure of gallantry, you wouldn’t be so scared of me.”
“Gallantry?” Who used that word anymore? She shook her head. “This is very kind of you, but I’m not scared.” One of his dark eyebrows arched. “Okay, yes I’m nervous. Scared spitless, actually.”
“Understandable.” He had black hair combed straight back and touching the collar of his blue shirt. A closely cropped mustache and beard lent a dangerous air to his narrow face. Oh, my.
“Freya was right. Blue does bring out the color of your eyes.” Gracious, but the man was muscular. Round, firm shoulders and large biceps. His knit shirt stretched over well-defined pecs. What would it feel like to be held against him? Oh, girl, don’t even go there.
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I just want to say I realize now at 3:34pm on THURSDAY that it is not Friday. I will blame my pregnancy brain, but more then likely it was wishful thinking. Enjoy a day early.