When we visited St. Joseph, Missouri, we had to stop at Jesse James’ house. While I was walking through those rooms, I wondered about his wife.
 
She’d set up a house, cooked meals, raised children…and her husband was an outlaw. She knew what he was, and that surprised me. Of course, who knew how she felt about his choices, and I’m sure it was hard to leave him since she loved him.
 
But I thought…what if she hadn’t known? What if a woman had married a man who was an outlaw, and she discovered it…
 
And turned him in.
 
So…FELICITY’S FORTUNE was born.
 
I had to give her a mighty hero, and Butch Wilder grew in my mind’s eye. And he’s a good one. He had to be a little sinful, though, but he’s got a big, big, big heart!
 
I loved writing this story. Felicity’s daughters are the cutest little things.
 
I also enjoyed sending Felicity to Hell’s Half Acre, because God bless Texas, but that place was scary. It belonged in a book.

And now, Felicity and Butch have established themselves as winners. They are very deserving, let me tell you. 

Are there any other figures from history that should have their stories re-imagined? Or do you have any books to share that have already told the events of someone from the past? Share that with us by commenting below!
​

Jesse and the Mail Order Bride: An Excerpt

He hurried up to his front door and stopped short. Did he knock? This was his house, but he didn’t want to scare her.

While he deliberated, the door opened and a wee lad stared up at him. The boy scrutinized his badge, then his face. “You must be Sheriff Jesse Cameron.”

He stepped inside and took off his hat. “That’s right. You must be Rosalin’s nephew.”

“Yes, sir. I’m Henry Bernard. Did you get the bad guys?”

“We did.” He hit at his leg with his hat as he looked around the parlor. Furniture had been moved and decorations added. Odd feeling, being treated like a guest in his own home. “Um, is your aunt here?”

“I am.” She swished into the room and smiled at him. “I hope you don’t mind that we’ve stayed here in your absence.”

His tongue tangled and he couldn’t form a sentence. While he gaped at the prettiest woman he’d ever met, the boy took his hat from him and hung it on the hat tree.

She gestured to the kitchen. “Mrs. Pickard brought over a pie this morning. She thought you’d be back today.”

He managed to say, “I… I better wash up. Dinnae usually look like this. Had a rough few days.” He washed up at the kitchen sink, wondering if that was all right. Wait—this was his house.

PURCHASE JESSE AND THE MAIL ORDER BRIDE
​

Caroline Clemmons

​Through a crazy twist of fate, Caroline Clemmons was not born on a Texas ranch. To compensate for this illogical error, she writes about handsome western heroes, feisty and adventurous women, and scheming villains in a small office her family calls her cave. She and her Hero live in North Central Texas cowboy country where they ride herd on their rescued pets—two cats and a dog.

The books she creates in her cave have made her an Amazon bestselling author and won several awards. She writes sweet to sensual romances about the West, both historical and contemporary as well as time travel and mystery. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with her family, reading her friends’ books, lunching with friends, browsing antique malls, checking Facebook, and taking an occasional nap. Find her on her blog, website, Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, and Pinterest.

Click on her Amazon Author Page for a complete list of her books and follow her there.

Follow her on BookBub.

Subscribe to Caroline’s newsletter here to receive a FREE novella of HAPPY IS THE BRIDE, a humorous historical wedding disaster that ends happily—but you knew it would, didn’t you?

She loves to hear from readers at caroline @ carolineclemmons .com

KYLEIGH'S COWBOY: AN EXCERPT

The two women walked from Kyleigh’s log cabin to the two-story wood and stone ranch house. Already, guests mingled in the adjoining dining and lodge rooms. More spilled out onto the huge veranda that wrapped around the front and one side of the building.

“Mercy.”

Admiration laced Ramona’s voice. Kyleigh glanced at her daughter then turned to see what she gawked at. Her son-in-law, flanked by a cowboy, strolled toward them. Her heart did an irrational little twirl, pulse scrambled into high gear. Kyleigh bit back her own murmur of appreciation of the lean physique, muscled forearms and bulging biceps poured into the shirt stretched across a broad chest. Her fingers itched to stroke the salt and pepper hair peeking out from under his hat and curled over his collar. Smooth shaven for the most part, the man’s tanned cheeks hinted at a five o’clock shadow just below the surface. Sexy. Kyleigh shook herself mentally as the two men approached.

“I think we’ve found our wrangler.” Robert said. “Ladies, meet Lance Stevens. Lance, my wife, Ramona Evans and…” He grinned and bowed low, then rose with a flourish of one arm toward Kyleigh. “Mistress of the Silver Star, my mother-in-law, Kyleigh Winters.”

​Eyes the color of dark roasted coffee swept over her in a gaze as potent as a caress, then locked with hers. Lance tipped his hat and grinned. A dimple creased his cheek. “Ma’am,” he drawled.

PURCHASE KYLEIGH'S COWBOY

Kyleigh's Cowboy releases 10/18 but you can PreOrder Your copy today from one of the following locations....
​
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BF627TZF
BB: https://www.bookbub.com/books/kyleigh-s-cowboy-by-pamela-s-thibodeaux
GR: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62590658-kyleigh-s-cowboy

Elise Scofield is making a fresh start. A move to sunny California may be just what she needs, especially with Scott there.

Scottie and I have always been close, “two straws in a soda” is my mom’s weird way of putting it. We’ve gotten over that awkwardness of having kissed a long time ago, and fallen into an easy brother-and-sister-type of relationship. He’s the best. And who knows? He might even introduce me to an eligible hockey player or two.

But when Scott’s teammate says he’d like to spend TEN MINUTES IN THE SIN BIN with Elise, Scott becomes hot enough to melt the ice that he plays on. Then when Scott finds out his opposite winger is only trying to win a bet by bedding Elise, he wants to check his teammate into oblivion. But why are his feelings always so amped up around Elise?

One thing’s for certain; he’s determined to keep Sergei from hurting Elise. And when he’s determined, he gets what he wants.
​
The only problem is...this time around he’s not sure what it is he wants.  
​​

TEN MINUTES IN THE SIN BIN: AN EXCERPT

I put the puck on the ice between us and hoped to catch her gaze, but she was focused. Her lips were in motion; she was strategizing. I chortled. “You’re so cute when you think you have a chance of winning.”

“Shut up and play.”

I raised my brows. Ooh, touchy.

We tapped ice, then stick, ice, then stick, ice, then stick, and then with lightning speed she got the puck. In her excitement, though, she let the puck get away from her. Rookie mistake. She had to go deep into the corner to regain control, which gave me the opportunity to get in position in front of the net. Our eyes met. She knew it was over. If she took a shot, I wouldn’t let it go in, and I’d take it to the other end before she’d finished her follow-through. She skated warily to the blue line, giving herself time to think, then poured it on, weaving across the ice, going backhand to forehand and back, honed in on me, hoping I’d commit one way or another. I opened my legs to give her a glimpse of the five-hole and she bought it, taking her shot. I didn’t have goalie’s pillows to seal it off, but I still managed to block it. Elise lost an edge and went sliding into the boards with a loud thud. She moaned, lying face down on the ice.

“Elise!” Forgetting everything else I sprinted to her side. “Are you okay?”

“Oh.” She lifted her head, grimacing. “What happened?” she said shakily. She got on all fours.

I tried to assess the level of damage. “Where does it hurt?”

“Umm…” She lunged to her right, hooking the puck with the blade of her stick and swung it into the net. “Yes!”

It took me a second to realize I’d been had. “Wait. That didn’t count.”

“I didn’t hear any whistle, so the play was not dead. I won.” She rolled onto her butt and extended her arm for me to help her up.

I jerked her to her feet and again her closeness made my throat tighten. “I should have dumped you on your butt.”

She removed her bucket, shaking free all of that gorgeous hair and grinning at me. “Yes. You should have.” She tapped my lips with her finger. “But you didn’t.”

I really, really wanted to kiss her. Like, knock her onto the ice and rip off her pads. And rip off my pads. And touch her smooth skin. And feel her lips under mine. And--

“Are you coming?”

She had glided about halfway across the ice and had pivoted, looking at me with a little cocky lift of her chin. I let out a scream that was partially a deep-throated yowl, partially an unidentifiable shout and rushed her. She shrieked and jumped then tried to race away from me, but I caught her at the boards where she had been hindered by opening the gate, trapping her in my arms, my mouth at her ear.

​“You, my dear, are a cheat.”

M.J. SCHILLER

M.J. Schiller is a lunch lady/romance-romantic suspense writer. She enjoys writing novels whose characters include rock stars, desert princes, teachers, futuristic Knights, construction workers, cops, and a wide variety of others. In her mind everybody has a romance. She is the mother of a twenty-seven-year-old and three twenty-five-year-olds. That's right, triplets! So having recently taught four children to drive, she likes to escape from life on occasion by pretending to be a rock star at karaoke. However…you won’t be seeing her name on any record labels soon. 

Website: https://mjschillerauthor.blogspot.com/
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​CORA LEE’S WAGER is finally here! Book 3 in the GAMBLERS & GUNSLINGERS series was quite a surprise. I had no idea the book would go in the direction it did, and I must say, it was quite exciting.
 
Cora Lee suffers through the death of her entire family in a yellow fever epidemic. Then her wealthy and formidable grandmother refuses to take her in. She becomes the ward of Frederick Tucker, who is also the father of four rowdy boys.
 
Cora becomes a member of the Tucker family quickly, and ends up falling for the oldest boy, Graham. And he falls for her.
 
But before they can go forward with their future, Cora is sent away. She ends up in an orphanage, and eventually becomes…
 
The “Angel of the Acre”. Hell’s Half Acre, that is.
 
She’s the gambler in this romance. Which was interesting, to say the least. A spot at her table is coveted, but her hero, the man she’s always loved despite the pain he’s caused her, is pretty straight-laced. And when he comes to find her, at the behest of her wealthy grandmother, Cora’s mettle is tested on many levels.
 
I adored writing Cora. I loved giving her and Graham their happy ending. They have to defeat more than one foe to have the future they’ve always wanted, but Graham is determined and won’t let anything stand in their way. Including Cora’s own fears.
 
It’s a beautiful story about second chances and the power of love. Happy reading!
​

CORA LEE'S WAGER: AN EXCERPT

Cora rocked lightly as birds twittered and flitted about. A fox trotted across her yard, and she smiled at the creature. Its red coat contrasted with the green of the short grass and the orange of the Indian paintbrushes that grew in patches.

This heavenly spot, ironically so close to hell on Earth, couldn’t be duplicated anywhere else. It was one of the reasons why she’d stayed and hadn’t sold the house after Butler had died.

She let out a sigh, sank deeper into the rocker, opened her book and just enjoyed the morning. A half-hour had passed when she felt a presence to her right. She turned her head, and her breath flew up into her throat.

Graham!

He stood on the dirt lane that went by the side of her home, his hands in his pockets, a guarded expression on his face. Their past stretched between them.

In a second, every morning she’d ever spent with him flashed before her eyes. They’d both loved the dawn. Those quiet hours before the world started. And they’d shared them together in his father’s library or on the porch just beyond the French doors.

And he must’ve decided to take a chance and see if she still woke with the sunrise.

She managed to drag in a breath but couldn’t move. She needed to get inside, hide herself from the pain he caused her. But her feet wouldn’t listen.

With a tight jaw, he took a few steps, and now he was in her yard, but still on the fringes.

He didn’t want to get close to her, either.

Well…

They’d sent her away, hadn’t they? She shouldn’t be surprised he didn’t want to see her.

So why was he subjecting them to this torture?

“Good morning,” he rumbled.

Her stomach clenched at the sound of his voice. It was deeper than she remembered.

“I need to speak with you,” he continued. He removed his hat, revealing his dark brown hair that fell attractively over his forehead.

The suit he wore helped cut him into a powerful figure. She was certain he was capable. Intelligent. Probably took care of things efficiently and to his satisfaction, regardless of whom he hurt.

He was a man now. And she thrilled at the sight of him.

Panic gripped her, and she squared her shoulders instantly, needing to get away from him, or she might beg him to explain what she’d done wrong. “I doubt we have anything to say to each other.” She twisted her lips into a sardonic smile. “You’re not someone with whom I choose to associate any longer.”

Oh, praise the Lord! She’d found the Angel of the Acre, and she would use her to block her desperation for this man.

He flinched and stiffened. “Look,” he growled, “I’ve got important business with you, and—”

“I can’t imagine why.” She shrugged. “There’s nothing you have that I could want, and I’m not interested in learning why you disagree.”

He curled his hands into fists, crushing the brim of his hat. “Maybe not, but you could at least hear me out.”
She laughed as if she hadn’t a care or concern for him. “I don’t think so. I only do business over a poker table.”

Disgust flashed in his eyes.

Good. Perhaps he would leave her alone now.

“So I’ve learned,” he spat. “Gambling is an abomination.”

She smirked. “And one I adore. There’s nothing like discovering your opponent’s weaknesses and taking him for everything he has.”

She’d never willingly done that. Or she hoped she hadn’t. She couldn’t control a man’s behavior or choices.

Graham let out a noise of disgust. “Fools. All of you.”

She shrugged. “At least we’re having a good time.”

Something shone in his eyes that she couldn’t name, but she didn’t want to look too deeply anyway. She needed to get him to leave. “Your errand is more foolish than any wager I could make,” she told him. “Best be on your way and find someone else to have your discussion with.”

He glared at her for a few silent moments. “Are you telling me that you truly only conduct business at a poker table?”

She grinned. “It’s no fun otherwise.”

With a frustrated exhale, he shoved his fingers through his hair.

Her heart flipped at its mussed state. My God. He’s gorgeous.

When he faced her again, she schooled her features back into a careless mask.

“Fine,” he ground out. “I’d like to enter tonight’s game.”

She laughed. “You can’t be serious?”

​“If that’s the only way I can speak to you, then it’s what I’ll do.”

​Allow me to introduce you to Evaline Cameron, the daughter of the General Store owner, a share-all who takes care of those who are sick, plans as many social gatherings as she can, and has too much curiosity for her own good. She is the heroine of EVALINE’S GRIT, book 14 in the RECLUSIVE MAN series.
 
I adored writing this type of character! Optimistic, kind, determined and, honestly, quite courageous.
 
I needed someone who could draw out a recluse, and it had to be a person who understood that love is the most important thing. She had to have experienced her own loss, so she could identify with what grief can do to a heart, and she absolutely had to have grit. Especially when dealing with a stubborn, but gentle, fellow like Jack Walsh.
 
EVALINE’S GRIT also has an element of mystery. There is a murder that needs solving, and because Evaline doesn’t give up on Jack, he learns the truth to his past.
 
It was a joy to bring these characters their happy ending! Happy reading!

EVALINE'S GRIT: AN EXCERPT

​Something hammered at the back of his head. He groaned and rose, but a gentle touch pressed his shoulder.

“Don’t try to move too fast.”

Alarm flashed up his spine, and his eyes shot open. His breath caught when he found an angel hovering over him. Evaline Cameron.

“How do you feel?” the vision asked, her face drawn in lines of concern and care. “What hurts?”

With her leaning over him? Nothing. And everything. As his head pounded, so did his pulse. He had to send her away. Now. “Could you…scoot back please?”

Apology shone in her wary brown eyes, and she did as he asked.

Slowly, he pushed to sit, then lifted his hand and touched the spot that burned at the back of his head. He pulled his fingers away, and some blood coated his skin.

She gasped. “Here. Press it gently to the spot.”

He glanced at her, then down at the wet handkerchief she held out to him. He hesitated. But he needed something to stop the bleeding, so with his eyes averted from her, he took the linen. He gingerly placed it on the wound, wishing the hammering would stop.

Of course, it didn’t help that the woman who tempted him to rejoin life knelt near him. She had as much to do with the battering going on in his body as his injury.

“What happened?” she asked.

He couldn’t have a conversation with her. He had to get her to leave. “Doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” she argued gently. “You were unconscious.”

He moved to stand. “That’s passed. I appreciate your kindness.”

She’d also risen, her face filled with concern and alarm.

But he ignored what he saw and tried to give her handkerchief back. However, the blood staining the linen gave him pause. “I apologize. I’ll wash it and leave it with the bottles when your father delivers supplies next week.” He lowered his arm.

“Mr. Walsh, I think I ought to make sure you’re all right and fetch the doctor. Knocks on the head can be dangerous.” She smoothed a palm over her stomach, then linked her fingers together and rested her hands against her skirt.

He’d experienced worse. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for your care.”

With a look of uncertainty, she bit her lip. “No gratitude is necessary. I was glad to be here, even though seeing you lying on the ground like that frightened me.”

He grimaced. “I’m sorry about that.” If he’d been paying better attention, he wouldn’t have smashed his skull against the bottom of the upper half of the outside cupboard he used to store supplies.

She shook her head. “No need to apologize. Really.”

He needed to ask her to go. Now. He drew in a breath, but she interjected with, “You’re so alone out here that I worry for you. What if you get hurt worse than this? No one would be around to help you.”

Which suited him. He didn’t deserve to live after killing a husband, father and friend. A good man. “I’m capable of caring for myself.”

“Yes, but—”

Despite the throbbing in his head, he lifted a hand and said firmly, “Miss Cameron, I’m fine. Please, return to town.”

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT is the first of the Ravenclaw series, a work that I’ve wanted to put together since 2014. The research was done, with some scenes complete, but the novel itself took a lot of rewriting into more conspiracies and theories to fictionalize it, and catching up to the present. And more research.

I’m great at conspiracy theories and can weave a credible theory from a monarch butterfly swirling around a flower. Since there are so many conspiracies, or conspiracy theories in the world – all at the same time, I figured it was time to start weaving. I think I got them all, all in fiction, of course <cough>.

Now I’m retired and can work on all the novels I’ve started. I live next door to a ranch, so I see a possible story in that one too. Yes, I need help. Psychiatric help. Besides my obvious psychopathy, I am a voracious reader and writer. I write mostly police procedurals, go figure, right?

​I have a very slight addiction to social media. I have an author page where I only post author stuff, and a main page where my comments often occasionally land me in Facebook jail time out <cough>. 
​

Cheyenne Keyes is a low-level microbiologist with a genius-automated program. She doesn’t believe Scott Walker is a protection detail. Instead, he has got to be a cultist or committing industrial espionage.
 
When she becomes infected with a spliced Ebola virus, she is certain the deathblow is imminent and works feverishly with her Israeli mentor to find a cure.

Scott returns to the field, and one after another, he finds his team endangered by leaks to enemy combatants. He must overcome his doubts in his leadership to find the leak.

Cheyenne must overcome her mistrust of the Army Ranger who said he was trying to save her life. It’s a pandemic, and Keyes, as she lays dying, wonders what might have been had she trusted Scott.

​Scott must stop the family bent on deconstructing the country with a bioweapon and find a way back to Cheyenne before she dies.   
​

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT: AN EXCERPT

Cheyenne grabbed her pepper spray and found her phone. Shallow breaths. Now deep breaths. No black zone. She raised her head. The taxi driver now began to swing his gun around.

Another crack! from outside the taxi. The cabby flew back into the driver’s side window as Cheyenne dialed 911.
The phone rang. Then again. And once again. Nothing but dead air.

Her gut clenched. She opened the back driver’s side handle. Locked.

Seriously?   

The man with the hoodie opened the driver’s seat door and pushed the cabby’s body into the passenger side, and yanked Cheyenne by her coat to the passenger side of the car, pushing her back. He trained his gun on her.
“Phone. Hand me the phone.”

She swallowed and held onto it.

He pushed the barrel to her forehead. “I said, phone.” 
 
Cheyenne slammed his wrist into the passenger window with one hand and pepper-sprayed him in the face. She dropped the spray into her lap and grabbed the back of his neck with the other, repeatedly banging it into the front of the headrest.

She yelled through gritted teeth, “You picked the wrong scientist.”

He grasped her by the throat. She grabbed his pinkie finger and pulled it backwards, then bit into the fleshy part of his palm. She drove her open hand into his face.

Scott lunged forward, freeing her surprisingly powerful grip from his gun hand and head butted her, knocking her backwards.

Cheyenne clapped a hand to her head and slung vile words at him.

“I did not want to do that.”

She yelled, “Oh yeah, you were forced.” More odious words.    

He swept up her phone, tossed it into the ditch, and left the front seat.

Opening the passenger door, he said, “If I have to knock you unconscious, I will, but if you keep your mouth shut, this will go a lot smoother.” He slid his Glock into its concealed holster, pulled her up to the rear seat, and duct-taped her hands and mouth.

Her eyes seeped fury. Eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, she directed a withering glare at him.

He yanked Cheyenne from the back seat, crooking his arm around her neck. He popped the hood of the trunk, and said, “Sit on the edge and I’ll help you in.”

She shook her head. “Mmmph-mmmph! Mmmph… oooh!”

“Fine, have it your way.” He picked her up, but even with hands and feet secured, she fought against him, attempting to kick, and still swearing through the duct tape. Scott lifted her and dumped her into the back without ceremony.  

“I’ll explain everything when you cool down,” he said.

“Cooo daw? Cooo daw?”

“Yes. Cool down.” He slammed the trunk lid, slid into the driver’s seat of the cab, and wiped the blood from his lip. He pulled the taxi back onto the street and headed towards home her safe house for now. With only one way in or out: through him. Oh, she’ll love that, all right.

​REINVENTING RILEY: AN EXCERPT

He walked her to the door and waited while she unlocked it.

She looked up. “Do you want a glass of wine?” While being alone seldom bothered her, the evening ahead looked long with only Hagar for company. “Maybe watch a movie? I start watching Christmas movies on Thanksgiving night, so I guarantee you’ll have plenty of opportunity to roll your eyes.”

He hesitated long enough for it to hurt, and she drew back. “Never mind. You don’t have—”

“I want to,” he said. “Maybe a little more than is good for either of us. I don’t want to let you in for the gossip that often goes along with dating a single pastor.”

The relief made her feel a little silly. “Probably not as much as if I dated a married one.”

But who was talking about dating? He was a dedicated minister with little left over to offer to a relationship. Besides, the sudden appearance of the boy called Griff was enough for him to have on his mind. Not that Rye didn’t want to spend time with Jake, but dating and depth didn’t go together for her. Sometimes, when she allowed herself to worry about things, she worried that she wasn’t capable of depth.

She wasn’t going to think about that now. She was going to think about wine and cheese while watching the 1951 version of A Christmas Carol. If a handsome man sat on the loveseat beside her, that was all right. That’s all, just all right.

“So?” She hated the breathiness of her voice that made her sound like the stereotype of a beauty pageant winner. She wasn’t the breathy type. Breathiness went with depth, didn’t it?

“So, would you like me to open the wine? I’m good with a corkscrew.”

They still stood inside the door, the lights on the Christmas tree she’d put up the night before lending ambiance to the little house. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll slice some cheese. Do you have a favorite?”

“White kinds. I might not be too knowledgeable about cheese.”

“Do you like Christmas songs?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

Rye’s list of holiday music played softly as they worked together in the tiny kitchen, bumping into each other every minute or so and laughing each time. It wasn’t self-conscious, the laughter, and she reveled in it. How long it had been since she shared that particular kind of joy with a man she…liked? Yes, liked. No more, no less.

After the third clashing of elbows, Jake set down the glasses he’d taken out of the cupboard and took the knife from her hand. “Let’s do this,” he said, and took her into his arms. Not close or tight, but warm, and danced with her through the kitchen and hallway, ending in the glow from soft light from the tree in the living room. They stood, swaying together.

“Your eyes,” he said, “are extraordinarily blue.”

“Yours are extraordinarily green.” His sweater, the same color as his eyes, was soft under her hands, covering shoulders and arms more muscular than she had expected. He was just the right height to dance with, too. Looking up didn’t hurt her neck, but he was enough taller than she to reduce her tendency to lead. “Is this our first date?”

He looked thoughtful. “No. Actually, I think we’ve had several. We’ve just kind of avoided calling them that.”

“That’s good then.” She sounded breathy again, but the truth was, she was feeling a little winded by his proximity and how it made her feel. “Because, I wouldn’t want to be known as someone who…you know…would kiss on the first date.”

“No, that wouldn’t be good, would it?” His arms tightened. “But maybe after several dates it would be okay?”

“I think so. A nice kiss goes well with wine and cheese and Ebenezer Scrooge’s story.”

“Does it?” His lips, warm and firm, met hers then. Searching. Tasting. Releasing. For a moment. “If one goes well, how would they be with two?”

“Oh.” She raised her hands, threading them through his thick, soft hair. “I think they’d be even better.”

The wine, cheese, and movie were wonderful after four kisses, splendid after five. The wine had had plenty of time to breathe and the cheese had warmed so that its flavor was rich and its consistency creamy.

Kind of like the kisses. Not the creamy part, but warm and rich and leaving her with a wish for more.

BIO: LIZ FLAHERTY

USA Today bestselling author Liz Flaherty started writing in the fourth grade when her Aunt Gladys allowed her to use her portable Royal typewriter. The truth was that her aunt would have let her do anything to get her out of her hair, but the typewriter and the stories it could produce caught on, and Liz never again had a day without a what if… in it.

She and Duane, her husband of at least forever, live in a farmhouse in central Indiana, sharing grown children, spoiled cats, and their grandkids, the Magnificent Seven. (Don’t get her started on them—you’ll be here all day.)
To find out more about her, stop by http://lizflaherty.net/ or sign up for her newsletter at http://eepurl.com/df7dhP. 

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