Flash

One romantic holiday. More than twenty fabulous authors. All your favorite stories.

It’s almost Valentine’s Day, and if there’s one thing we romance writers flock to, it’s anything involving love. (Well, that and chocolate, but that’s not just in February.) So what better way to get into the spirit of all things heart-shaped than to gather a bunch of us together, put pen to paper and revisit some of our favorite characters?

We know, T. Swift, we’re excited, too! From February 8th through 12th , we’ll be sharing original pieces revisiting characters from old stories. Which characters? You won’t know until you read! It could be a deleted scene you never thought you’d get to see. A sex scene in a different character’s POV. A where-are-they-now vignette, or even secondary characters who never got their chance to bang…er, have a happily ever after.

What else could possibly make this better? Free stuff! Some authors will have their own giveaways going, but we’ll also have one massive prize pack at the end of our frolic! One lucky winner will be the recipient of a boatload of awesomeness, including gift cards, signed paperbacks, ebooks, and other V-day swag.

What are the deets on your chance to win? All you’ve got to do is leave one little love note on each author’s post*. On Valentine’s Day, we’ll pick one commenter at random to get the whole shabang. So make sure to check out the schedule below, and get ready for the 2016 Valentine’s Rewind Blog Hop!

*Website links will not be live until the hop begins!*

Monday 2/8  

Tamsen Parker

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Nicole Helm

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Julia Kelly

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Rebekah Weatherspoon

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Adriana Anders

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Tuesday 2/9

Zoe York

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CJ Lemire

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Alexis Anne

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Wednesday 2/10

Rebecca Grace Allen

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Emma Barry

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Audra North

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Kelly Maher

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Jeanette Grey

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Thursday 2/11

Karen Stivali

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KK Hendin

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Rebecca Paula

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Alexandra Haughton

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Kasey Lane

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Friday 2/12

Amber Belldene

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Jodie Griffin

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Alyssa Cole

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Suleikha Snyder

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Teresa Noelle Roberts

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Nicole Helm: signed copies of All I Have and All I Am
Audra North: signed copy of Giving it Up
Teresa Noelle Roberts: signed Copy of Drive
Tamsen Parker: signed copy of Personal Geography, Heart tote
Rebecca Grace Allen: signed copy of The Duality Principle
Alexandra Haughton: design package for Romanced by the Cover (Http://RomancedByTheCover.com)
Emma Barry: winner’s choice of ebooks from her backlist
Karen Stivali: winner’s choice of ebooks from her backlist
Alexis Anne: paperback copy of Tempt
CJ Lemire: copy of Never Say Never: Tips, Tricks, and Erotic Inspiration for Lovers
Jodie Griffin: ebooks of all four of her Forbidden books (Forbidden Fantasies, Forbidden Desires, Forbidden Fires, Forbidden Obsessions)
KK Hendin: winner’s choice of two ebooks from her backlist
Amber Belldene: ebook of Not A Mistake (Hot Under Her Collar, Book #1)
Jeanette Grey: signed paperback of Seven Nights To Surrender
Alyssa Cole: e-copies of her historical shorts, Be Not Afraid and Agnes Moor’s Wild Knight

PLUS a $50 Amazon Gift Card sponsored by Kelly Maher, Alexis Anne, Amber Belldene, Adriana Anders, Kasey Lane and Rebecca Grace Allen. 

*We’re aware there are issues with commenting on Adriana Anders, Karen Stivali, and Kasey Lane’s posts. Not to worry if the site won’t let you leave a love note!

Thanks for stopping by during the 12 Days of Christmakwanzakah! I’m so excited to be participating with all the other wonderful authors. Many thanks to Julia Kelly and Alyssa Cole for organizing. I hope you enjoy Max and Sophie. 

A Thrill of Hope 

“I am so sorry.”

This was the third time the flight attendant had apologized.

“If I had another seat available, I’d move you, but the flight’s full, and—”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The impeccably made-up woman’s face crumpled into helpless chagrin and Sophie almost laughed.

“I could get you a cocktail, no charge. Or a glass of wine. Really, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. If you had any idea how good he smelled, you’d be offering me a cigarette instead of a cocktail.”

The attendant’s eyes darted down the aisle before she whispered, “He’s cute, too.”

Sophie’s mouth drew together in a pained smile and she nodded. Yes, he is.

Cute was not a strong enough word for 21B. When he’d sat down, she’d almost died. He was tall enough to be uncomfortable in coach seats; his knees wedged into the folded-up tray in front of him, his broad shoulders encroached on her space over the armrest. She hadn’t minded, really. Especially when he’d sheepishly apologized. As if there was anything he could do. But she’d appreciated the gesture, the acknowledgement.

And his face. Blue eyes like she could barely believe and dirty blond same-length scruff that covered his jaw and scalp. Usually she preferred more hair, enough to sink her fingers into, but she’d make allowances for 21B and the broad, strong planes of his cheeks and forehead.

His head was resting heavy on her shoulder, his breath blowing warm across her collarbone as he slumbered. He’d been asleep for most of the flight, restless for the first hour. He’d startle awake when he dipped into the aisle, drag himself back, then repeat the same slow slide. Eventually he’d shifted and leaned on her, the weight of his head forcing her to just, for the love of god, sit back and relax.

And what the hell was that smell?

Like salt-dusted pitch pines, the ones that managed to flourish in the sandy soil of the Cape. She’d been glad to get the post-doc position at Woods Hole, running away from the family that wouldn’t leave her alone. She inhaled, feeling guilty for her olfactory voyeurism. But it was his fault, wasn’t it? For falling asleep on her?

He woke as they landed, shaking the sleep from his head and murmuring a “Sorry” she shrugged off before he turned to get his things together; checking his cell, digging in his wallet, scribbling something on a scrap of paper. As everyone filed off the plane, he pointed to her carry-on in the overhead bin across the aisle. “This yours?”

She nodded, not wanting to risk speech.

He hauled it down, placed it in his vacated seat and her ingrained manners overpowered her shyness. “Thank you.”

He dropped a nod and she avoided eye contact, keeping surreptitious tabs on his broad back until he melted into the crowd at baggage claim. Farewell, 21B.

At her aunt’s house she unpacked; hung clothes, arranged toiletries. She’d tried to beg off and stay at a hotel, but her aunt wouldn’t hear of it. So she was stuck at the house in the French Quarter, surrounded by overbearing relatives. She already wanted to escape. When she reached into the side pocket of her bag, there was a folded piece of paper. Probably an old receipt or plane ticket, but she opened it to make sure before she tossed it.

21A,

You smell pretty good yourself. I’ll be in New Orleans for a week before heading home to Boston. I’d like to take you out for coffee. Or a drink. Or a beignet. Pick your poison.

21B (aka Max Hollander, your friendly neighborhood narcoleptic)

And there was his number. Her face flamed—He’d heard her!— but her mortification settled into a low burn of pleasure.

***

Sophie stood at the corner of Jackson Square where she was supposed to meet Max. She’d debated calling him, but after a day spent stuffing mirlitons and batting away questions about when she was moving back home, she’d wanted to escape to the anonymity of the caroling crowds.

Once she’d gotten here, though, she’d wanted recognition. Someone to know her name, even if he thought her name was 21A. She’d rather be 21A than the morose Sophie her family expected. Even after a year, they couldn’t stop giving her sympathetic looks. Yes, she was fine. Yes, she liked her job. And yes, it had been the right decision to break off her engagement because Darren hadn’t been the one. Or as he’d told her, she hadn’t been the one for him. Too quiet, too involved in her work. Why can’t you loosen up and have some fun?

So she’d called, not daring to expect Max would be free. Almost hoping he wouldn’t answer so she could hang up after listening to his voicemail message. But he’d picked up, seemed pleasantly surprised when she identified herself. And here he was, making his way through the crowd. Half tourists, half locals, all red-faced with holiday cheer and Bourbon Street brews. He navigated around them, his body big but nimble. He smiled when he saw her and she ducked her head. She’d become unused to people looking that happy to see her.

She shoved her hands in her pockets as he approached. What had she been thinking, meeting a stranger? But the sing was about as public as you could get.

“Sophie.”

“Max.” She blushed when she said his name, loved the way his grin got wider.

“How’s your stay so far?” He wasn’t from around here. The way he spoke was the crisp sounds and aggressive punctuation of the North. She’d gotten used to it over the past several months; liked the driven cadence of it. A welcome change from the slow, sinuous drawl of Louisiana.

“Fine. I’m here for the holidays. It’s home.” She shrugged and the cowl she’d draped around her shoulders slid down. “But it’s not for you.”

He reached out and tugged the thick-knit yarn back up, letting his hand linger on her arm a beat too long.

“How could you tell? No, I’m in town on business. Came early for pleasure.”

“It’s what we do best.”

“Is it?”

His teasing tone made her cheeks heat. “Not me, personally. I mean—”

He laughed. “I know. You’re a little buttoned up, aren’t you?”

Cold. Distant. That’s what Darren had said. She bit her lip, not knowing how to respond. Next thing he’d be telling her, Smile. You’d look prettier if you’d smile.

“Hey. I like shy girls. There’s usually something worth having behind those buttons.”

She clutched the placket at the top of her coat. “Have you unbuttoned the city yet?”

The tourists, a lot of them came for the food, the music, the booze. They’d find it. The brassy bluster of thoroughly-spiced Cajun food and the jazz bands were hard to miss. But some of them sought something deeper, the magic particular to New Orleans.

“Not yet. But I’d like to. I know there’s more to it.”

“Want to sing first?”

She loved the unapologetic music of Christmas. With so many people, she could sing to her heart’s content and not worry if anyone could hear her, if anyone would judge. It wasn’t cool, but she liked it and hoped he wouldn’t say no.

“Sure. I love Christmas carols.”

She gestured for him to follow her into the crowd and all the warmth in her body gathered where he rested his hand on her back. She was so used to being dragged around by Darren that being followed—especially by this hulk of a man—was heady.

Sophie threaded her way through the close-packed people and found a spot where the crowd was less dense. With Max at her back, people gave her space and she liked the vague heat of him. Protective but not smothering, like he wanted to burn with her, not add her flame to his own.

She expected him to stand alongside her, but he stayed behind her. The corner of her mouth turned up as he started to sing. His voice was like him. Big, but not overshadowing and when she inched against him, she could feel the vibration of his true notes. They sang for a while and the tension bled out of her, got carried away on the tones of her neighbors.

This wasn’t technically getting to know Max, but anyone willing to sing carols with a square full of strangers couldn’t be all bad. Her eyes watered like they always did during O Holy Night and when they finished, she swiped the tears away. The scent of him hit her as she turned and it made her wistful for the place she’d called home for only a few months. Maybe next year she’d have a New England Christmas instead of a New Orleans one.

“I don’t suppose you’re hungry?” She’d stolen bites while helping out in the kitchen, but the shrimp and squash seemed to have been consumed by the singing, maybe by the banked fire of Max.

“I am, actually. I was about to head out to Café du Monde when you called. Would you mind indulging my touristy impulse?”

“No. I think it’s a city ordinance that visitors have to get beignets and a café au lait there. Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

They chatted over the ceramic plates and cups while their knees crowded under the wrought iron table. She threaded a thigh between Max’s denim-clad legs so instead of bumping against each other, they were nestled comfortably. He worked for a shipping company, and when a last-minute emergency came up he’d drawn the short straw.

“Single, no kids. I’m the obvious choice for travel, especially around the holidays. I figure it’s paying my dues.”

A down payment on a family. It was stupid—they’d just met—but she liked the portrait the single sentence painted. Solid, responsible, generous.

They talked until late, sponging up the dregs of powdered sugar with the no-longer-hot beignets and drank too much coffee. She’d never get to sleep. But she didn’t mind. She thought the late hour was worth it when Max offered to walk her home. “I know you’re from here, but I’d feel better knowing you got home safe.”

Sophie put her hand in his when he offered it and held on as they strolled the brightly-lit streets. She considered meandering down more streets than strictly necessary to get back to her aunt’s house, but on the off-chance he had a perfect sense of direction she didn’t dare.

They arrived at the house too soon and she didn’t want to let go. But the noise of her boisterous family leaked from around the shutters and under the wreath-bedecked door.

“Can I call you after the holiday?”

“I’d like that.”

“Then I will.”

She turned to climb the steps, but after one, thought better of it. “Max?”

“Yeah?” He hadn’t gone anywhere, was maybe waiting for her to get inside before he headed back to his hotel. The thought pleased her enough that she mustered the courage to lean in and kiss his rough cheek.

“You smell like pine trees by the beach.”

He caught her with gentle fingers that slid through the hair at the nape of her neck and tugged her in for the possibility of a kiss. She met him halfway. His mouth was soft, encouraging, and she let their lips touch for longer than was probably wise, her fingers wrapping around the lapels of his coat.

When she pulled away, he smiled, dazed. She mumbled “Merry Christmas,” before scrambling up the steps and over the threshold. She leaned against the inside of the door before stripping off her cowl and coat, and hanging them on the already overburdened coatrack. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, flushing with pleasure when she read the message:

You smell like cinnamon and cloved oranges. Merry Christmas, Sophie.

Maybe next year would be better than the last.

Thank you for reading A Thrill of Hope! I made a little mini pinterest board if you like that kind of thing. Today’s other story is by K. M. Jackson, and you can find the rest of the schedule here. Best wishes for a happy holiday season!

xoxo Tamsen 

Stung

When Tara had said she was getting married outside, it had sounded like a good idea. Beautiful garden, pristine white chairs and flowy sky blue bridesmaids dresses. Bucolic. Lovely. Except Hillary had forgotten about one thing.

Fricking bees.

And now, one of the black and yellow striped devils was in her dress. She couldn’t get it out. She tore at the beaded neckline, wrenching the fabric away from her skin.

Fear wound itself around her throat so tight it was almost as terrifying as the last time she’d been stung: her airway had closed up, she hadn’t been able to breathe. The stab of the epi-pen in her thigh had been the most welcome pain of her life.  Today, she hadn’t brought her purse to the ceremony since she wouldn’t have any place to leave it. The clutch, along with her lipstick, cell, and yes, her goddamn epi-pen, were at the reception site, a golf-cart ride away.

She yanked at the billowy fabric, wishing the cinched neckline weren’t quite so sturdy. The bee’s tiny wings beat against her skin, or at least she imagined they did. Something was definitely fluttering against her ribcage and despite the balmy weather, she’d broken into a cold sweat. This was how she was going to die.

She was about to descend into panicked screaming when there was a tearing sound and suddenly more of her skin was exposed to the air. Someone had ripped her dress. Was continuing to rip her dress. A jerk dug the halter into her neck, hard enough to leave a mark, but then she was free. More importantly, so was the bee.

Cool air and relief filled her lungs at the same time realization flooded her brain. The bee was gone, but so was her dress. She was standing in front of three hundred wedding guests in nothing but lacy boycut underwear and really fantastic shoes.

Sinking to her knees, her coral-tipped fingers sifted through the remains of her dress. It was completely unsalvageable. Fiery embarrassment raced from her hairline to her very exposed chest. When Tara had picked the Grecian gowns, Hillary hadn’t worried. One of the benefits of an A-cup was being bra-optional. She was about to curl up into a ball of mortification when thick, warm fabric settled over her shoulders.

A hand appeared in front of her, palm darker than hers, but not as dark as the wrist it was connected to or the creases at the joints.

“Come on.”

The voice seemed to be connected to the jacket that had been tucked around her and the jacket to the hand on offer. She took it. Her gaze traveled up the white dress shirt, finding a blue tie the same color as the scraps formerly known as her dress and a face backlit by the sun.

The hand, the man, the voice, pulled her up and rested a hand between her shoulder blades, steered her away from the gawking crowd. They approached a small outbuilding, a glorified shed.

Safe inside, Hillary leaned against the door, covered her face with her hands and sank to the floor. That really just happened. Not only had hundreds of people seen her almost naked, the whole thing would be on tape. She’d tried to dissuade Tara from having a videographer, but no. Her friend had wanted to preserve memories of this day in any form humanly possible. Well, that’d show her.

“Are you okay?”

That voice again. When she summoned the courage to look up, she realized who it was. One of the groomsmen. Tara had said there was a friend of Dan’s she wanted to fix Hillary up with. Forever attempting to play Cupid, she’d wanted them to meet at the rehearsal dinner, but a canceled flight and lost luggage meant Hillary hadn’t made it. Denied the introduction last night, Hillary’d spent her idle minutes at the makeshift altar perusing the four men in formal wear across the aisle as they waited for Tara to float between the rows of chairs.

They’d all been attractive, but her eye had kept wandering back to one. Tall with short-cropped hair and the darkest skin she’d ever seen, he was striking. Lankier than her usual tastes, but he had a magnetism her body’s internal compass kept returning to. Not to mention the way he’d smiled when he caught her staring. She’d hoped the jolt of attraction was mutual. Now he was crouched in front of her.

“It’s Hillary, right? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she croaked, a stark contrast to the deep, lilting chime of his voice.

“You didn’t get stung, did you?”

She shook her head. How did he—

A pounding on the door pierced her sticky thoughts.

She scrambled out of the way as the door swung open and bright white fabric billowed through.

“Hill! Are you alright? And you—” Tara shoved the man in the chest. He took a step back, hands in the air.  “What the hell, Peter?”

“Bee,” Hillary managed before Tara decked the guy. Peter. “A bee got in my dress. I couldn’t get it out.”

Tara went as pale as her dress. She’d been there the last time Hillary’d been stung. Now, as she’d done then, Hillary soothed Tara. Yes, she was okay. No, they shouldn’t wait for her. Yes, they should really go on with the ceremony.

“You always wanted to get married at sunset. If you wait for me, you’ll miss it. Go ahead.”

Tara hemmed and hawed but it was for show, her eyes darting to the door with every breath. After a few more reassurances, she was gone.

“You should go, too,” Hillary told Peter. “No need for you to miss it. Dan would want you there.”

Peter grinned, mouth stretching wide over his teeth. “I mostly came for the open bar.”

A hint of a smile fought against the swarm of emotions in her chest and pushed at her lips. “I’m going to need it. I’m never going to live this down. I told Tara not to get a videographer. They better edit the shit out of this.”

Peter offered her a hand. “I’ll walk you up to the resort. We’ll see them at the reception.”

When she pulled herself to stand, she swayed. Nearly fell. Only bracing herself against Peter’s very solid chest kept her upright. Apparently, the adrenaline she’d been running on had fled the scene. The jacket, Peter’s jacket, gaped while she tried to get her bearings. He didn’t look down, but closed his hands above her elbows. Held her up. “Need another minute?”

She nodded, but didn’t sit. Instead, her gaze wandered down his neck to a perfect Windsor knot, continued over the crest of his shoulder. The outline of an undershirt showed through the white sleeve.

She didn’t want to miss Tara’s wedding. Tara’d been her best friend for a long time and Dan not far behind. She wasn’t going to let a tiny little thing like public nudity stop her. “I don’t want to miss this. I’ve known Tara and Dan since before they were Tara and Dan. I’m the one who convinced her to go out with him in the first place.”

“Isn’t it black tie? I don’t think this counts.”

“I don’t think they’ll mind if I take some liberties, but I’ll need your shirt.”

A crease formed between his brows, but he said, “Sure.”

After making sure she was steady on her feet, he reached for the tie, pulling the knot apart. Emboldened by her near death experience, brimming with a need to seize every opportunity, Hillary took the silk ends from him. “Can I? You got to rip my clothes off, it only seems fair that I get to return the favor.”

He dipped his head and his breath caught as she finished what he’d started before smoothing the tails down his chest, his stomach. Through the shirt, he was lean, and she took more time than necessary to skim back up to the top button. She undid them carefully, slowly, until she tugged the ends out of his pants. He was barely breathing by the time she’d finished.

She slid the tie out from behind his neck and draped it around her own before she pushed the shirt off his shoulders, dragging the pads of her thumbs along the swell of his biceps through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, over the soft skin that clung to the ropey muscles of his forearms. The desire to have her hands on him had been so strong, her decision so impetuous, she’d forgotten to undo his cufflinks to slide the sleeves off his wrists.

A few seconds of fumbling later, he was looking at her again. She didn’t tell him to turn around when she dropped the too-big jacket to the ground, pulled his shirt on and cinched the tie around her waist. She handed Peter his jacket and he shrugged it on while she opened the door. “Shall we?”

“I thought for sure Tara was exaggerating when she told me how badass you are, but I guess not.” Peter shook his head, amusement playing over his features as he offered her his arm. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

I hope you enjoyed my contribution to the #1stundress blog hop. I had so much fun, I made a mini-pinterest board here, if you like that kind of thing. You can check out the full schedule here. Or if you’ve been keeping up, the other posters for today are Piper Vaughn and Gina Fluharty. Thanks for dropping by!