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Monday, June 29, 2015


Thank you so much for coming. Don't forget to go back to Tuesday Tales and read the excellent stories there. Maggie's story continues this week. 

* * * * * * * 

Penn hated when his parents fought. Luckily his apartment was big enough for him to escape. This was the same old argument –about his playing baseball. Maggie, John, and his mother tried to sneak him out to games, but his father had come home early one Sunday to an empty house.
The farthest room was a tiny one. It was a large closet his dad had had fashioned into an art studio for his mom. 
When he was little, he’d sneak in so quietly no one knew he was there. He’d look at all the paintings, chalks and watercolors is mother painted.
Even when he was little, he didn’t touch anything. He knew if he did, he’d be banished. Just being in that room, he felt his mother’s presence, her joy, her warmth, her love. 
Now he was older. So he picked up a piece of chalk and found a pad of paper. He sat cross-legged on the floor and began to draw. 

Maggie had discovered his hiding place, but never gave him away. Since the boy did no harm, she protected his secret. Maggie and John had retreated to their quarters when the quarrel began. But when it simmered down, the usual way –with Anne retreating to the bedroom in tears, Maggie went hunting for Penn.
She opened the door to the studio, soundlessly.
“Whatcha got there, my boy?”
Penn jumped. He turned to face her, trying to hide the pad behind his back.
“Nothing,” he lied.
“Come on now. Give it here.” She motioned.
He stiffened, but handed over the drawing. She looked at it and at his dirty hands.
“Don’t touch your clothes, son. This isn’t half bad.”
“It’s a dog. A shaggy dog. Wish I had a dog, Maggie,” the boy blurted out.
“And a mighty fine dog it is,” she said, taking his hand.
She led him to the bathroom to wash up, then tucked the picture under her arm.
“It’s not finished.”
“Let’s find a place for it in your room, then.”
He nodded. She took him to the playground while Mr. and Mrs. made up in the bedroom. After dinner, she joined John in their rooms.
“Boys an artist, like his mum,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse.
“Really? That ought to bust up his dad more than baseball.” John hung up his jacket.
“He’s good, too. Got talent. Kinda raw, but with a few lessons.”
“Don’t even breathe a word of it, Mags.”
“I know,” she said, pushing down her skirt. “Mister wouldn’t like it. Gotta be business.”
He patted her behind. “Fancy a tussle?”
She grinned at him. “Best offer I’ve had today.”
“Better be the only offer you’ve had today.” John chuckled.
“Think the boy'll be an artist?” She pulled down the covers.
“Over his dad’s dead body. Slide down this way, girl.”

Monday, June 22, 2015


The word prompt this week is "old". Thank you for coming. Maggie's story continues:

“Where’s my cap?” A note of irritation surrounded John’s voice.
“Where’d you leave it, love?”
“Master Penn is playing in half an hour and I don’t have my cap!”
Mary frowned, but headed for the study. John had been taking notes on Mr. Roberts’ itinerary for Monday before taking him to the office. Sundays were busy days in real estate, even for multi-millionaires.  Sure enough, there it was hanging on the back of the chair. She plucked it off and returned to the kitchen.
“Looking for this?”
“Bless you, old girl,” he said, stooping to kiss her.
Before she could say a word, John was hustling Penn out of his room. Anne and Maggie slipped on jackets for the slight fall nip in the air. All four bundled into the car and drove uptown to the ball field in Riverside Park. John parked, then he and Penn ran ahead.
Maggie smiled at her husband, all puffed up with importance as he stood in for the lad’s father. Penn’s ten-year-old teammates thought John was cool because of his British accent. Anne and Maggie grabbed seats in the bleachers.

Young Penn was a natural. He showed more talent than any other player on the team. Maggie was proud he was the star. But the sentiment wasn’t unanimous. One night she overheard the Roberts’ arguing.
“I’m not building this business so that my son can become some stupid baseball player!”
          “But he’s good. Really good. Maybe that’s what he wants to do. The coach is recommending baseball camp this summer.”
“Over my dead body! And you’ll stop encouraging him in this idiot little league crap, Anne.”
He stomped out of the room, into his study and slammed the door. A soft sob drifted to Maggie’s ears. If he worked hard, the rich boy might make the major leagues someday. But not if his father could help it.
A tap on her shoulder interrupted her thoughts.
“Psst. Look. A baseball day camp. Here in the city. Mister will never know.”
John handed her the brochure. Maggie nodded. After checking that the study door was still shut, she tiptoed into the living room, the brochure in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.
“Thought you might like this,” she said, setting the cup on the coffee table.
Anne sniffed, wiped her eyes and nose and nodded. “Thank you, Maggie,” she said, her gaze drifting over to the brochure Maggie was waving about.
“What’ve you got there?”
Maggie handed it to her. Anne read it, then looked up at her servant.
“I couldn’t. No. I couldn’t. My husband would have a fit.”
“Not if he doesn’t know,” the young woman said, smiling. 


Saturday, June 20, 2015


Come look inside, read a few snippets from Coach's book and I think you'll want to read more.

* * * * 

He wiped his palm on his shorts, which weren’t necessarily clean to begin with, and blushed when he remembered. Her grasp was firm, confident, just right, and the skin on the back of her tiny hand was soft under his calloused fingertips. He tried not to crush it, but forgot to let go.
“Lyle tells me the team calls you Coach Bass? Can I call you that too?”
His throat closed up, and his heartbeat doubled. He nodded.
She laughed again and gently slipped her hand from his. “What can I do for you?”
All he could do was stare. His mind went blank. Christ, I’m forty-two years old, not thirteen. Talk. Say something. What the hell am I doing here anyway? Shit. I don’t remember.
The silence grew as he rummaged through his brain for the reason he was there.

* * * *  

“Well, Coach, did you tell Parker where he could stick it?” Bullhorn Brodsky asked.
“Parker is not a he, but a she. And no, I didn’t. Why don’t you guys open your minds a little? This is going to be a pioneering program. We’re going to be the first in the NFL to give our players some help dealing with anger.”
“Program? I thought it was one fucking seminar. An hour and that’s it,” Griff Montgomery said.
“Keep an open mind, Griff. I’m going to be helping the lady put this together. At least give the thing a try, will ya?”
The men snickered. “So, Parker is a woman, eh? Bet she’s hot too. Isn’t she, Coach?” Trunk Mahoney teased.
Pete frowned. The last thing he needed was ribbing about Jo Parker from the guys. He sensed heat creeping into his face. “She’s smart. And she’s not giving up. That’s all you need to know.” Pete snatched his gear off the bench and headed for the door. Retreating like a fucking coward. Sebastian, what’s happening to you? Manipulated by a pretty face and embarrassed by your men. He shook his head as he climbed the stairs and turned down the corridor leading to the conference room. His heartbeat quickened. He straightened his tie for the third time, took a deep breath, and entered the room.

* * * *  

He picked up speed, breathing hard, pushing his body. She was in his blood, and no amount of running would get her out. He was infected with her, like a virus that would have to play through all the way. No antidote, no cure, existed. Falling for Jo Parker put him in limbo, sailing on uncharted seas, giddy, excited, scared silly, but, like a roller coaster, he was forced to ride it through to the end.
Pete returned home at eleven, showered, and slid into bed. Sleep came quickly, bringing luscious dreams of lovely Jo. He awoke refreshed, having spent the night making love to her in his dreams.

Want more? Find the book here.

Thursday, June 18, 2015


Here's an excerpt from the book, PETE SEBASTIAN, COACH, from the First & Ten series: 

As he climbed the stairs from the workout room, Coach Pete Sebastian’s temper flared. Stupid idea. Just bullshit to get the media off our necks. Parker is obviously an asshole who doesn’t know our team. He’s judging everyone by two rotten apples. The more he thought about the unnecessary upset to his men, the more he burned.
The lines on his forehead deepened. His light brown eyes clouded as his step quickened. I’ll teach this jerk something about how to deal with my team. He rounded the corner and stopped at the office next to his. Raising his arms to rest his hands against the doorframe, he leaned his trim, sweaty, six foot two inch body into the space.
Pete stared at the person sitting at the desk and raised his brows. “I’m looking for Joe Parker?”
A woman, facing the window, swiveled in the desk chair and leveled her gorgeous, big, blue eyes on him. “Yes?” She scanned his body, which was clad in only gym shorts and a tank top, before she rested her gaze on his face.
“No, Joe Parker.”
“That’s right. Jo. J-o. Short for Josephine. What can I do for you?” She rose from her chair, and Pete’s mouth went dry.
Even wearing high heels, she wasn’t over five foot six. She wore a turquoise silk suit, the jacket open, showing a white, silk blouse underneath. The scoop neck revealed enough creamy cleavage to capture his attention.
He lowered his arms and stepped inside. Her hips were slim,  and her legs slender, but not skinny. Raising his gaze, he noticed blonde hair that seemed to glow, framing an oval face. Her peaches and cream complexion showed a slight blush around her cheek bones, and her kissable lips shined with a bright pink lipstick.
Pete had never seen a woman so beautiful in all of Monroe before. Sweat started under his arms as he realized that in a wife-beater and shorts, he was practically naked and sweaty as hell. He probably reeked, like a skunk, and hadn’t shaved. He rubbed his hand along his stubbly chin, as if to hide the wiry scruff there.
“And you are?” As she approached him, the subtle, floral scent of expensive perfume wafted across the room, teasing his nose.

“Pete Sebastian. Coach Pete Sebastian. Head Coach Pete Sebastian,” he stammered. Smooth. Very smooth, asshole.

Book releases 6/19 Pre-order or buy it here:

Monday, June 15, 2015


This week is picture prompt week. Maggie's story continues. Read on:

Maggie loved Anne Roberts and her husband, but when they took two weeks in the Caribbean in the winter, they made her dream come true. Now Maggie and John became Penn’s substitute parents.
They rose early to play with the youngster before school. The seven-year-old  giggled with glee as he ran from room to room, searching for John in the massive apartment. Maggie fixed his favorite pancakes and took extra care packing his lunch. While the three ate breakfast,  John quizzed the bright boy on addition and subtraction. Maggie taught him a new vocabulary word every day at supper.
The took turns reading him a bedtime story, but both tucked him in. And if he had a nightmare, he climbed into bed with them. Penn was a charming child, quick to smile, affectionate and curious.
When he was safely bedded down, the couple sat in front of the fire, sipping fine wine, gifted to them by their employer.
“I’ve been pinching myself all day,” Maggie said snuggling down with John on the massive sofa. A distant cry grabbed her attention. They both went to check on Penn. His face was flushed, he was crying softly in his sleep. Maggie felt his head. He was burning up.
“Call the doctor, John. Our boy is sick.”
“Mommy,” the boy wailed.
“I’m here,” she whispered.
“I want Mommy. Not you.”
The pain felt like the little boy had thrust a spear into her chest. She choked back tears.
“I’m sorry, Penn. She’s not here. She’s away, son.”
His red-rimmed eyes pleaded with her.
“It’s all right. John’s fetching the doctor. I won’t leave you.”
She kicked off her shoes and slipped into bed next to the lad. He cuddled up to her, resting his head on her chest while she stroked his hair

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