COOL FRIENDS/HOT AUGUST READS!
My August CONTEST opens up a whole lot more choices of great books to pick from, PLUS, you’ll still receive a $25 gift card from #Amazon, #BN or #iTunes.
To introduce you to these authors and their awesome books, I thought I’d give you “snippets” pulled straight from the stories. ENJOY!
Next up, Annie Jone’s delightful: SUMMER OF LOVE.
Brides, Beehives, and Barbecue!
It’s 1967, the Summer of Love…Southern style.
“Donald Parrish, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of here,” I murmured, all bleary-eyed and satisfied, to the naked man spooning up behind me in my old childhood bed.
“You’re good for me.” He slid his hand under my hair and pushed a thick damp tangle of red curls over my shoulder. Planting a soft, slow kiss low on the back of my neck, he said in an early morning growl, “These past seven months since I met you have been good for me, Bella Du-Mont-Lange. I don’t ever want to leave you.”
A moan rose all the way from that place south of the pit of my stomach. We lay there all soft sheets and bare skin and just enough sweat and the hint of something wickedly wonderful about it all to make me shiver. I shut my eyes and stretched my legs out, the soles of my feet skimming down the length of his shins almost to his ankles. “If my mother finds you here, you will not just leave me, you will leave this earthly plain.”
He leaned in until I could feel every inch of him, and I mean every inch, and moved his lips against the shell of my ear whispering between tiny kisses, “I… am not… afraid… of your mother.”
I groaned and writhed and giggled in pure delight. “I love it when you talk crazy like that.”
I love it, not I love you. I held my breath and waited for him to point out the disparity, as was his way. But this time he just cupped my breast in one hand and sighed.
He must have decided that vigorous self-examination and utmost candor did not mix well with afterglow and calculated evasion. Besides, he was in no position to push things with me. He wasn’t even supposed to be here in the Lange family home, much less in my old room and certainly not sinking down beside me in my canopied cherry-wood four poster bed.
Of course, to hear most of my family talk about me and my shot at ever having any type of love life, he wasn’t even supposed to exist. Men? Sure, they all accepted, even expected me to have my share of men. But my share, they didn’t hesitate to make clear, was a pretty small slice of the whole man-pie available to women like my gorgeous, petite blonde half-sisters, Margo and Charlotte Lange. Lucky for me, Donald was no small slice.
But neither was the only other really hot romance I’d had in my life. Tony Pinnette had been a handful in more ways than the most obvious. I had been eighteen when we met and he had been…
A thousand adjectives flew through my mind — sexy, funny, dangerous — but only one stuck. I had been eighteen and he had been a jerk.
He broke my heart. Everyone but me had seen it coming yet sometimes I still can’t put the pieces together and come up with the big picture. Tony had claimed he wanted me. Lord knows I had wanted him. Then–
“What are you thinking about?” Another well placed kiss on my neck from Donald, this time lower and more lingering.
“Sex.” It was the truth.
“Okay, but it’s daylight already. We might get caught.” His long fingers curved purposefully into the flesh of my backside.
“Stop it,” I whispered pressing myself into his grasp.
“You said you were thinking about sex.”
“Yeah, but what makes you assume I was thinking about sex with you?” I twisted my neck around to give him a sly smile and found myself pulled into the deep, earnest calm of his smoky green eyes.
Such understanding eyes, underscored by a crooked nose that he’d gotten fighting with his big brother as a kid. That gave his face a hint of character that played well with his exotic, at least to a girl born and raised in tiny little Delpha, Tennessee, coloring. Donald Parrish’s earthy-to-almost-mocha skin tone hinted at but did not completely give away his Scottish/Jamaican/Scandinavian/Jewish heritage. Not really dark unless you compared it to my skin, a hue roughly a shade about as sallow as Casper, the friendly ghost doused in butter milk, Donald was still dark enough that I imagined my deeply southern ancestors rolling over, and over, in their graves at the very notion of what he and I were planning. Rolling and muttering things like: “Did she say Jamaican and Jewish? Hang on to your petticoats, Patsy, that news is going to require another spin!”
I’d met the man last November when he saved me from dying in a fiery airplane crash. And by saved me I mean gave me the gold plastic airplane pilot’s wings his nephew had given him as a good luck charm for the flight from Cleveland to Atlanta. He explained he was a psychologist moving to Rome, Georgia to teach at Shorter College then told me he believed I was born to fly. And the instant he said it, I almost believed it myself.
“I assume you are thinking about sex with me.” He brought me back to the subject at hand with a kiss and, well, his hands as he eased me onto my back beneath him. “Because sex with me is so overwhelmingly awesome that it has blotted out the memory of any other man you have ever been with, or almost been with, or imagined being with so you are helpless to do anything else but marry me.”
Yes, marry. Like Luci Bird Johnson and Patrick Nugent. Like Superman and Lois Lane. Like Elvis and Priscilla. Let me re-emphasize: I could not say ‘no’ to this man.
So on July Fourth at my mother’s annual salute to singleness on behalf of her offspring… her Independence Day Barbeque, I was going to marry him. Right under her as yet unsuspecting nose.
Ooh, I love Annie Jone’s delightful sense of humor and rich, warm Southern way with words. If you’d like to check out more of her fun, slightly whacky–who among us isn’t?–characters and books, click HERE!
Good luck to everyone who signs up for this CONTEST. I hope your friends are as COOL as mine, and your hot August nights are filled with fun and good books! Look for more Snippets all month long.