WIP Wednesday: coffee orders and hotel beds

I'm running late this week (lately when am NOT?), so I apologize for that. I'm hiding at my desk at the EDJ and doing this on my phone, so fingers crossed. *g*

Today we see Mateus and Crawford right after they've come back to the United States. They were hoping it would go smoothly, but of course it doesn't. They're stuck in the border town overnight until the immigration officer can see them the next morning.

---

Tall,  Dark and Deported

Mateus flopped down on the queen-sized bed, wrinkling his nose when he bounced instead of sinking into it. This was nothing like the feather-soft beds at [hotel name], though the rock-hard mattress and slick nylon coverlets were hardly a surprise for a place that rented for $59 a night.
Crawford had tried to book them into a nicer hotel down the street, but Mateus's pride wouldn't allow it. He'd been mooching off Crawford for too long—it was Mateus's turn to foot some of the bill for this, especially since they were stuck here overnight because of him. Unfortunately, he couldn't afford down comforters and 500-thread-count sheets. But the room did come with a free continental breakfast in the morning, which was kind of exciting.
He closed his eyes and listened to Crawford fumbling with the tiny coffeemaker on the bathroom sink. It was late, but he didn't say anything. He'd learned not to come between Crawford and caffeine, no matter what time of day Crawford was having it. [insert earlier snipy fight over coffee late at night]
Something clattered into the sink with an echoing thud and Crawford cursed softly. Mateus peeked open one eye in time to see him angrily shoving the piece back into the coffeemaker.
“I saw a Starbucks a mile or so back. I think I'm going to give up on this and make a coffee run. You want a decaf cinnamon latte?”
So maybe Mateus hadn't been the only one taking notes on beverage preferences. He tried hard to ignore the fluttery feeling he got knowing Crawford had been paying attention all those nights they'd stopped at the hotel coffee shop for a drink after dinner.
“If you're going out anyway. But don't make a special trip for me.”
Crawford snorted. “I've got about four hours of paperwork to get through tonight. Trust me, I'm going anyway. Possibly more than once.”
Mateus winced internally. Crawford had been so amazing through all of this, never once getting angry about how much this marriage had inconvenienced him. Even now, staying in a second-rate motel with a nonfunctional coffeemaker, he didn't snap or try to make Mateus feel bad. Instead, he offered to pick up his favorite evening drink while he went out to get coffee to fuel a late-night work session that was necessary because he'd spent all day doing things for Mateus.

WIP Wednesday: King of the Kitchen

As some of you already know from Twitter and Facebook, I recently started a new job. I've been a freelance writer and editor for eight years, so heading back into a structured professional environment was a bit daunting.

I was worried it would really put a damper on my writing, since I have considerably less time to do it in. But I guess I shouldn't have worried, because we all know creativity is kind of like a gas--it expands to fill whatever space you can give it, and mine is going gangbusters in the smaller space I've allotted for it now.

Which is good, because I've got two projects with quickly approaching deadlines, and I'd be pretty well screwed if I wasn't cranking out chapters. *g*

I thought I'd start a WIP Wednesday feature here on the blog to keep you updated on what's on my plate--and it also helps keep me accountable, since I have to make sure I have a  new snippet to share each week.

Today I'm sharing part of a scene from King of the Kitchen, my rival-chefs-turn-lovers lark that is due out in early November. I'm skating up hard and fast to that manuscript deadline, so send good wishes for Beck and Duncan to keep chattering away in my head so I can get them onto the page!

---

King of the Kitchen

“If you wanted to impress me, you'd have to do a hell of a lot better than a plate of fatty ham and congealing hollandaise. We don't serve eggs benedict in our restaurants, Charlie,” Beck said, eyeing the name on Duncan's chef's whites with disdain and drawing it out like an insult, “and even if we did, I don't appreciate having you encroach on my personal time with your pathetic attempt at a job interview.”

Duncan's mouth hung open, and he wavered between outraged and completely confused. What was this guy talking about?

“Listen, buddy. I was just being friendly,” Duncan snapped, choosing to go with outraged. He left the plate in the pass through, pointedly ignoring it—and the man—as he pulled a new ticket off the carousel.

“Order in! One deluxe hamburger, one order of chicken tenders, one spinach fritatta!”

Duncan turned toward the kitchen to get started on the eggs but was pulled up short by a hand on his shoulder.

“You can't talk to me like that, buddy.”

Duncan scowled. “Of course, sir. The customer is always right. Yes, the eggs benedict were part of a convoluted plan of mine to apply for a job cooking for your, what?” He made a point of studying the gorgeous guy's suit. “Office building? Hotel, maybe? I admit, it's always been my life's ambition to run a carving station at a Marriott buffet. How could you tell?”

---

Love Hurts: A Valentine's Day freebie story!

Happy Valentine's Day! Instead of chocolates or flowers, I figured I'd give you something you could actually use--- sweet teenage angst. (With a playlist, because everyone knows Valentine's Day should involve music!) *g* 

A little background: Zeke and Hatcher are the main characters in the YA book I'm working on, Incoming Credits. This short picks up about six months after that book ends. The short and the book are both written in first person from Zeke's perspective.

Enjoy!

Love Hurts

I scowled at the phone, dropping it on my bed without erasing the voice mail. If Hatcher thought he could just apologize his way out of this one, he was sorely mistaken. Sorely being the operative word.

Three hours ago, I'd stormed out of Hatcher’s dorm room with my proverbial tail between my legs, and he'd been calling and texting nonstop ever since. Not that I'd answered any of them.

The phone beeped with yet another incoming text. I ignored it. It was probably just another variation on the I'm sorry messages he'd been sending every twenty minutes or so.

I shifted on the bed, dislodging the makeshift ice pack my roommate Chris had made me before he'd left for his date. Unlike some people who shall remain nameless, he was taking the safe route, going with dinner and a romantic walk through the park for his Valentine's Day date.

That's what I'd wanted to do, but no, Hatcher wanted to try something new. It'll be fun, he'd said. What could go wrong, it'll be fine, he'd said.

I glared down at Ziploc bag resting on my crotch. It hadn't been fine.

The Tylenol I'd taken when I'd gotten home had helped, but it was starting to throb more. That probably meant it was time for another dose. More ice would probably help, too. But did it hurt enough to justify putting on pants and limping down to the ice machine in the basement? No sir, it did not.

Just the thought of rough fabric touching the burn made me cringe. Sitting through class was going to be fun tomorrow. It would have been okay if it had been anything other than my drafting class. Most professors didn't really care what you wore, but Professor Arnold had a dress code in his syllabus. The first week of class a girl had been thrown out for wearing sweatpants with the university logo on them, so I didn't think my tattered plaid pajama pants—the softest pants I owned and the only thing I would even consider letting close to my crotch right now—would fare any better.

*.*.*.*

It was nearly midnight when my phone pinged with an email from Hatcher. I was expecting a lengthy apology, given the number of times he'd been texting and calling, but it was just a few words and a link.

Listen to me  

I clicked on the link, my lips curving up into a grin despite my best effort to frown as I read the playlist name: “Love Hurts.”

Hell yes, it did. The track listings made me smile, too. I’d always been amused by Hatcher’s dark sense of humor, and this was no exception.

Love Hurts, Nazareth

It Hurts Like Hell, Aretha Franklin

Why Does It Hurt So Bad, Whitney Houston

Hurt like Mine, The Black Keys

Sex on Fire, Kings of Leon

King of Pain, The Police

Burning Love, Elvis Presley

Sexual Healing, Marvin Gaye

It was definitely an eclectic list, and I had to give Hatcher points for creativity. It didn't make the burn hurt any less, but something in my chest eased a bit. I hated fighting with Hatcher, even when I was the one instigating it. And it hadn't really been his fault—it had been an honest mistake, but my embarrassment had made it worse.

Really, I was probably most upset by the fact that he'd thought our sex life was boring. I mean, it's not like either of us have much experience, but I'd thought things were good. What was I supposed to think when his big Valentine's Day surprise ended up being a box of things to spice up our sex life? That doesn't happen when your partner is satisfied, right?

The body chocolate Hatcher had ordered from some sex shop online hadn't said it should be heated up, but we'd kind of figured it was like a jar of hot fudge. He hadn't even put it in for that long—less than a minute, for sure. But it had been more than hot enough to burn me when he'd drizzled it on.

Thank God he hadn't put it on my dick. Having a burn on the skin in the crease of my thigh was bad enough. I couldn't imagine how much worse it would feel in an even more sensitive area.

I lifted the blanket and moved the ice pack aside, looking at the angry red burn again. The chocolate had been hot enough to cause my skin to blister, but it wasn't the worst burn I'd ever had. I'd done worse to myself taking things out of the oven. Then again, those burns had been on my hands. Not my groin.

Even with most of the ice melted, the bag felt nice against my skin, so I put it back. Chris wasn't coming back tonight, so I didn't need to worry about pants until tomorrow morning.

I settled back against the pillows, careful not to dislodge my ice pack, and plugged my headphones into my phone. I hit play, grinning when the first song started.

Hatcher had texted a few more times, but I still wasn't ready to talk to him, even though I'd already forgiven him.

Let him suffer a little.

*.*.*.*

“Figured you'd still be asleep.”

I startled awake at Hatcher’s voice, nearly falling off my precarious perch on the edge of my bed. I must have fallen asleep listening to his playlist. It took me a minute to realize that the room wasn't dark anymore. Sunlight poured in from the blinds that I'd forgotten to close last night.

Oh shit. It was morning.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I scrambled to get up. The Ziploc bag that had been full of ice last night fell to the floor and burst open, splattering both of us with cold water.

Hatcher grabbed me by my shoulders and stopped me from face planting onto the floor, but I squirmed against his hold.

“I have class!” I muttered, wiping the droplets of water off my face with the back of my hand once he let me go.

“You had class,” he said, his grin entirely too smug for this hour of the morning. I didn't have time for this. Professor Arnold locked the doors of the lecture hall at precisely 8:01 a.m. and didn't let latecomers in. He only allowed one unexcused absence all semester; I wasn't going to waste mine in February.

His words sunk in a beat later, and I looked over at the alarm clock on my nightstand. Fuck. It was almost nine.

I stopped fighting against Hatcher's hold and slumped back against my wet pillow. “Shit. I'm fucked.”

Hatcher grinned, and even in my panicked and still pained state, my pulse kicked up a notch. We hadn't had sex last night, what with the body chocolate fiasco, and it had been days since the last time we'd gotten off together. Even though I didn't feel remotely like having sex, I'd missed that smile and all the dark promise it held.

“Yeah, you would be fucked, if I hadn't gone to your professor with the note from your doctor,” Hatcher drawled.

“If I hadn't—what did you do?” I asked, terrified. Professor Arnold was not the type to just accept an excuse—he'd call to check on the validity of the note, and then I'd be in trouble for lying as well as ditching class. My scholarships required a high GPA and no ethics violations. “Oh my God, I'm going to get thrown out of school.”

The smile slid off Hatcher's face, and he sat on the bed next to me, his hands coming down to grab mine. “Hey, no. It was a real doctor's note. I have some cream for your burn, too. And Dr. Hanson wants to actually see you in person in a few days, or sooner if the cream doesn't help.”

“Dr. Hanson?”

Hatcher grinned sheepishly. “My doctor here in town.”

Ah, of course. Hatcher's richer-than-Midas parents wouldn't stoop to letting him see a campus doctor at the health center like everyone else. It made sense that he'd have a personal doctor here. Though he hadn't been sick once all year. When had he met Dr. Hanson?

“You know your doctor well enough to get him to write notes and give you a prescription for a patient he hasn't even seen?”

Hatcher's family might be crazy rich, but there had to be a limit to what money could buy, right? Surely they weren't paying off doctors now.

“His sister went to school with my aunt, I think. We know him somehow, at least. And I have seen him. I had a physical in September when school started. Mom insisted.” He tossed the tube of burn cream to me. “It's not a prescription. Just regular over-the-counter stuff that his nurse recommended. You're supposed to use it three times a day.”

I rolled my eyes but uncapped it anyway. I'd been too panicked about missing class to notice the pain when I'd woken up, but it was definitely there now. The skin felt tender, and it pulled and stung every time I moved. “Is there anywhere in the world you could go that your family doesn't have some sort of connections?”

His smile brightened. “The Winthrops haven't made a lot of inroads in Asia. Want to move to Singapore?”

I laughed. “Not even a little. So I need to go see your doctor?”

That was going to cost me a pretty penny, I was sure. I doubted my Mom's crappy health insurance was going to cover a doctor that Hatcher saw. I still had some savings from working at the camp over the summer. I couldn't call home and ask Mom for money—especially since she'd want to know how I got injured in the first place.

Hatcher watched me dab on the cream with obvious interest. I flushed, remembering that I was completely naked. Not that I hadn't been naked in front of him before. Just not this casually. I'd always insisted on sleeping in at least a pair of boxers, since both of us have roommates.

“He's on retainer.”

Seriously? That was a thing? I thought only lawyers were on retainer. Hell, I wasn't even entirely sure what that meant.

Hatcher seemed to pick up on my confusion. “My parents pay him a fee to make sure he's available whenever I might need him. This kind of visit is covered in that. Most minor things are.”

God. I shouldn't be surprised, but Hatcher was so normal that it was easy to forget just how wealthy his family was. Even when we'd been at Winthrop Prep together, he and Leighton had been so much more down to earth than the rest of the blue bloods. Here at Cornell, the divide between heir to the Winthrop fortune Hatcher and normal Hatcher was even more stark. He acted just like everyone else. Except for having a doctor on retainer, apparently.

“Oh,” I muttered, swallowing thickly. “Right. Erm, thanks.”

“Don't be weird about it,” he said dismissively. “Besides, it's kind of my fault you're hurt anyway.”

If his interpretation of kind of was completely, then yes. I gave him a dirty look but chose to let it go.

Though next time Hatcher had an idea for how to spice things up in the bedroom, I was going to insist he be the guinea pig.

“So,” Hatcher said brightly, nodding to my phone where it sat on the mattress next to my pillow. The earphones were still attached, making it obvious what I'd been doing when I'd fallen asleep. “What did you think?”

I snorted. “I think the last one was a bit optimistic. If you think I’m going to let you anywhere near my –”

He leaned in and kissed me, cutting me off mid sentence. I couldn't complain. Kissing Hatcher was one of my favorite things in the world, and he was being careful not to lean on me and aggravate my burn. I brought my hands up and buried them in his hair, letting him lead the kiss.

My cheeks were flushed by the time he finally pulled back. “Was that an apology?” I asked, earning a huff from him.

“Would you accept it if it was, unlike the dozens of others I offered you last night?”

My blush deepened, this time out of embarrassment. I'd been really angry last night, but after sleeping on it I could see how ridiculous it had been to just storm out of his dorm room and not answer any of his calls.

“Yes.”

His smirk softened, and he peeked down at the burn. It looked worse than it had last night, but it actually felt better, especially after using the cream he'd brought. I wasn't going to be rushing into my skinny jeans anytime soon, but I was pretty sure I could stomach wearing sweats without wanting to die. That was progress.

“I really am sorry. I should have read the directions, but I was just too excited to use it. I wanted to make you feel good.”

The confession took me off guard. “Really? It's not because you think sex with me is boring?”

Hatcher gaped at me. “What? No! That's what you thought?”

Relief flooded through me. I hadn't realized just how worried I was that Hatcher was getting tired of me until just now. Things between us had gotten off to such a rocky start that we couldn't even agree on how long we'd been dating. I count from the day I actually realized we were dating—six months. But Hatcher counts from the day we started our little friends with benefits arrangement, since he said he thought we'd been dating all along—seven months.

Either way, it had been plenty of time for someone as gorgeous and amazing as Hatcher to realize he was wasting his time with someone as ordinary as me.

“Yeah. I mean, what was I supposed to think? You say you have big Valentine's Day plans for us, and then you pull out this box of stuff...”

I trailed off, not sure how to explain how I'd felt when I'd seen the silk scarves and padded handcuffs. There had been a vibrator, too, but I'd been too mortified to really process that. When he'd asked me what I wanted to try first, I'd grabbed the body chocolate because it was the only thing in there that I knew what to do with.

Though clearly I hadn't, since I didn't stop him from putting the damn thing in the microwave.

“It came as a package,” Hatcher said, his own cheeks stained pink. “The website said it was a Valentine's Day exploration kit. There were these hokey coupons, too. For sex and other things, like candlelit dinners. It wasn't because I think sex with you is boring, Zeke. I don't. But I've never been in a relationship with someone before, and I kind of panicked about what to do for Valentine's Day. Leighton recommended this sex toy site, and I swear to God, this box of things was the least scary thing on it.”

Hatcher's sister was one of my best friends, but she was a menace. Of course she'd suggest sex toys for Valentine's Day. God damn Leighton. I'd have to yell at her next time we Skyped.

Or better yet, open up that vibrator and then give her details about using it on her brother. That would teach her.

My dick actually twitched a bit at the thought of going through the box of toys now that I realized Hatcher was just as overwhelmed by them as I was. And finding out that he hadn't gotten them because he thought I was bad at sex helped, too. Now that I wasn't panicking about him dumping me or worrying that I didn't satisfy him, I could see how most of the things could actually be kind of fun. Not today, of course. They all seemed to require a flexibility that I just didn't have right now. But maybe soon.

The thin sheet covering my lap didn't hide much, and Hatcher noticed my interest pretty quickly. His eyebrows rose. “Really?”

I shrugged. “Maybe the last song on the playlist wasn't that optimistic,” I said, grinning when he leaned in closer and kissed me.

“What time is Chris back?”

He usually didn't come back to the room til after lunch, which meant we had plenty of time. I didn't think my injury was going to let us get too crazy, but that didn't mean we couldn't mess around.

“He's got an 11 a.m. class, and he'll probably hang out on campus after for a bit,” I said, shifting over carefully to give Hatcher some room to settle in on the bed.

He darted in and kissed me on the nose. “So since Valentine's Day didn't go so well for us, so I was thinking maybe we could do something tonight.”

I arched a brow at him. “Valentine’s Day, the sequel?”

“Too much pressure. There are all these expectations for Valentine's Day. It's bound to be another disaster. How about we celebrate President's Day instead?”

I snorted out a laugh. “Because nothing says sexytimes like President's Day?”

“Well, it is the biggest mattress buying day of the year,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

I shook my head and drew him in for another kiss. “You're ridiculous. Happy President's Day.”

I could feel his smile against my lips. “Happiest President's Day ever,” he murmured.

---

Blurb:

Incoming Credits

When Zeke's life at the exclusive boarding school he attends is already hard enough  with the stigma of being a scholarship student and an art nerd, so being forced out of the closet is the last thing he needs. Getting outed because someone heard him mooning over the school's resident golden boy? Even worse.

High school ends in a blaze of misery for Zeke, but that doesn't matter because he's on his way to Cornell. He'll start over where no one knows him, and he'll finally be able to be himself. He's so anxious to get started that he enrolls in a summer program that offers incoming freshmen the chance to earn a few credits and a stipend for helping out with a summer camp.

Zeke figured it would be easy to get over his crush on Hatcher when he didn't have to see his stupidly perfect face every day. Unfortunately, that's just a hypothesis...because Hatcher's at Cornell, too, and he's suddenly interested in talking to Zeke.

Zeke finds himself falling even harder for Hatcher as their summer progresses. And surprisingly, Hatcher's not just another pretty face. He's smart and funny, and it turns out that boarding school was awful for him, too. He'd had money and popularity, but he hadn't had many actual friends. It's a learning curve for both of them, especially when Zeke learns that Hatcher is gay. Helping him out of the closet is easy, especially when Zeke offers to show him the ropes, so to speak, in a strictly friends-with-benefits situation. Things get complicated when feelings get introduced, and Zeke ends up learning just as much about himself as he does about Hatcher.

Lost: Motivation. If found, please return!

photosteve101/Creative Commons

Last year went out with a bang for me, but 2015 has started with a fizzle. I'll admit that scheduling three new releases in December was probably a bad idea--I was majorly burnt out by the end, and my WIPs have been stagnating because of some pretty ferocious writer's block.

We've also been struggling to get my son's med dosages right, and he's floundering a bit. Screaming tantrums and wild mood swings don't make it easy to write--and I'm including mine in there along with his. It's been a tough road lately, but we're coming through the other side soon, I hope.

He was absolutely amazed to see that my latest novel, Playing House, was dedicated to him. He knew it was about a character who had autism, like him, but he didn't realize that he was a big part of the reason I wrote it. So that was a bright point last month, getting to see the look on his face when he read the dedication. (And then promptly begged to read the book, which I had to yet again deny. He's an avid reader and wants to read all my books, but I've told him he has to be at least eighteen. And I've also promised that when he is eighteen he's going to want absolutely NOTHING to do with Mama's books...*g*)

I spent November getting a good solid start on my first YA book, so that's high on my WIP list for 2015. I'll be looking for a few good betas for that, since it's not a genre I'm hugely familiar with, so if you're good at YA pacing and dialogue drop me a line. Maybe if I had someone asking me for updates I'd be more likely to finish it up sooner rather than later!

Between the three book releases, holiday madness, and my son's struggles, I didn't have a lot of time or motivation to write in December. I started a lesbian short story (my first in that genre, and something I'd really like to finish even if I can't find it a publishing home), dabbled a bit on a paranormal manuscript that I've been pecking at for years, and shuffled things around in a few other WIPs I've been procrastinating on. I logged a total of about 10K words across those projects. All in all, not a great month.

The kids are finally back in school, even though the weather has caused closings and delays. Hopefully that will be behind us soon and I can get back into a regular writing groove--I miss it, and I'm worried at this rate that I won't have anything out in 2015!

I need to figure out how to unlock my motivation for 2015. My current plan is to fake it til I can make it...basically getting myself in front of my laptop and writing anything I can, even when I don't want to. What do you do when your motivation is nowhere to be found and your WIPs are piling up?

(No really, what do you do? Because I'm open to suggestions... *g*)

Is it research or procrastination? Bump up your word count by getting lazy

I've often had people ask me about my writing process, and I rarely give the same answer. It's not that I'm being evasive, but more that my process has changed over time and even changes day-to-day. Some days I sit down and struggle to write anything at all, and other times I sit down and bang out 10,000 words in less than 24 hours (in a hotel room over Thanksgiving shared with my husband and two young kiddos, no less).

My most successful writing days come when I can zone out and just write. I'm a world class procrastinator, and if given half the chance I will wander way from my manuscript and do just about everything under the sun other than write. So when I really need to get things done, I don't worry about researching specifics or finding the perfect word. I just channel my characters and write.

A peek at notes from my latest WIP, Finding Home.

Will I need to do more work later on those parts? Definitely. My draft for my current WIP, Finding Home, is littered with notes like __need to research terminology on how rowers talk about strokes__ and __insert fancy-sounding craft beer name here__. Sometimes I can't find the right word to flow with the sentence, and I leave myself notes like __a word that means flighty but isn't flighty__. Or I realize that I can't remember some minor character's name even though I know I introduced him at the beginning, so I might write __the dude from the coffee shop from chapter one___ instead of breaking my concentration and going back to find the name itself. It's amazing how much more productive I am when I let the smaller things go instead of following a tangent down a rabbit hole and ending up spending an hour researching the craft brewing process when all I really needed was a throwaway sentence on how microbrews are conceived.

That's not to say that I don't research. I do, like a fiend. When I wrote Island House I didn't know a catamaran from a kayak, let alone how to tie anchor bend. (Now that I've brought it up, you know you can't resist learning the knot. Go ahead, there's the video...you wouldn't be reading about how to zone out and write productively if you could effectively avoid temptations like that one) I let myself get sidetracked by research, and as a result it took me almost three years to finish the manuscript.

I learned my lesson after that. I'm now 3/4 of the way through the follow-up to Island House, and the new outlook I've adopted on writing is definitely paying off. By giving myself permission to leave those places undeveloped so they don't interfere with the writing flow, I've taken away my excuses for procrastination and the roadblocks between me and a decent word count. Of course, there are still those inevitable days where I just can't seem to bring myself to string more than a sentence or two together. Now instead of being frustrated by them, I use them to go back and do the research I skipped and finish the scenes that I'd have gotten hung up otherwise.

This won't work for everyone, especially those of you who write linearly and need to perfect a scene before you move on. But it's a godsend for me, since if I'm not moving forward I lose interest. Or, you know, let a tiny bit of research hang me up so much that I put an almost completed manuscript on the back burner for three years before buckling down and finishing it.

A Dutch author actually hooked himself up to a gaggle of electrodes to monitor his brain function while writing. I have to say that while I'm curious about what goes on in my head while I'm writing, I don't think I'd take it that far. How about you?

Snippet from Finding Home

Buy on Dreamspinner Press
Amazon
Barnes and Noble

Island House came out earlier this week, and I've been having a blast visiting blogs talking about it. Right now you can enter to win a free copy on Andrew Q. Gordon's blog.

Be sure to check out the posts if missed my release party over on the Dreamspinner Press blog. I shared snippets from the book and the inspiration behind some of my favorite parts of the novel. Don't fret if you missed the giveaways--there will be more chances to win goodies like the metal anchor bookmarks and the ceramic oil warmers from the prize packages on Twitter throughout the month.

I'm hard at work on the second book in the Dropping Anchor series, Finding Home. Here's a sneak peek at some of the dialogue from  today's writing session:

---

Letting Clare choose where they ate would mean something vegetarian, or worse, vegan.

“Can we stop for something on the way? You know she's not going to let us eat anywhere with actual food,” Ian pleaded.

“The last time I did that she smelled the french fries the second she got in the car. I ended up on a three-day juice cleanse,” Niall said with a shudder that told Ian he wasn't exaggerating.

“I did a juice cleanse once,” he offered.

“A two-day bender where all you did was drink pineapple juice with rum is not a juice cleanse,” Niall retorted.

“Lost six pounds,” Ian continued, ignoring the interruption.

“Probably more from dehydration from all the sex than because of the juice,” Niall deadpanned.

Ian considered it, then nodded. College spring break weeks were a guaranteed good time on Tortola. “Possibly.”

--Finding Home, due out summer 2014

---

On the topic of beverages, apparently you can get Butterbeer at Starbucks! It's pretty chilly here in Indianapolis today, so maybe I'll treat myself to a magical hot drink this afternoon.