A short for the NYC Midnight 2019 Micro Fiction Challenge: a 250 word story in 24 hours.
The genre was Romance (go figure), the prompt “Climbing a Tree,” and the required word recover.

Contains old wounds, an oak tree, and upholstery fabric.


Celia followed her new client down the paved path, clutching her rucksack of swatch books. She’d stitched the bag from scraps of previous upholstering jobs, handy examples of piping, braid, flat-felled seams. One outside pocket held scissors, the other held pepper spray.

“You’re not scared of heights, are you?” Walt called.

“No.” She wasn’t afraid of him either—his wheelchair increased personal space, and gave her a height advantage—though he was handsome, and the interest lurking in his glances made her nervous. She forced herself to make conversation. “I loved climbing trees when I was little.”

His house perched in an enormous oak, twelve feet above the ground. Cedar shingles and mismatched windows met bark at organic angles, as if the tiny cabin had sprouted there.

Walt pivoted at a leggy root, below a disabled parking sign nailed to the trunk. He reached into the branches, piked at the waist and swung his legs up over the next limb in a smooth athletic arc. His body twisted up a higher bough in another fluid movement, then he turned back. “Can I take your backpack?”

She stepped away from the open hand too near her face, swallowing her gasp. His forearms were muscular, intimidating with their masculinity, their power.

Walt’s expression flickered with concern, then understanding. “I can wait down below, if you’d prefer.”

Celia took a deep breath, recovering a piece of herself that had once enjoyed men with strong arms and gentle smiles, and handed him her bag.

The Someday Dog

nycmsscMy second round attempt at the NYC Midnight 2019 Short Story Challenge won an Honorable Mention in its heat!
(Crash, my first place winner last round, is over here.)

The randomly assigned genre was Thriller, the character a Dog Walker, and the prompt was a Bucket List. We had three days to write 2000 words.
(I’ve revised a bit, since.)

The Someday Dog

A dog-walker takes on a St. Bernard sized bit of intrigue.
Contains witness tampering, frozen cocktails and Milk-Bones

The dog park nearest the state capitol has more security than the governor’s mansion. I swipe my clearance card at the gate house, and the guard pokes through my knapsack with latex gloved fingers.

I’m carrying the usual: wet wipes, plastic bags, beef sticks, three tennis balls and a veterinarian’s first aid kit. I sign in on the digital clipboard.

Dolly, the Saint Bernard at my side, thumps her tail. The last un-adopted puppy from her rogue litter tumbles over his own paws. I call him Three. He’s got his mother’s huge head and appetite, but not her brindle coloring. I’d found homes for One and Two last week.

Another guard lets us through the second interior fence. He has a tranquilizer gun on his hip. Here, the lethal weapon is the Speaker of the House’s Great Dane.

A Pharaoh hound—wearing an Armani coat and collar combo that costs more than a semester of law school—does his business in the grass, while the Lieutenant Governor’s wife chats on the phone about her villa in Aruba.

I’ve never been to the Caribbean. Every time I catch up on my student loans I dream about sandy beaches and rum drinks with fruit. Maybe someday.

My phone buzzes with the latest news alert on the latest hearing on the latest scandal. Sen. Caleb denies meeting with Saudi prince in March.

The Riyadh royal is a hot media item—his Wetterhoun took Best Rare Breed last year at Westminster, amid some controversy—only a special kind of jerk keeps a Frisian Water Dog in the middle of the desert.

After a good game of fetch, I get another text: On my way.

I gather up the slobber covered tennis balls, and call Dolly. We have plenty of time to visit the old veteran who hangs out near the entrance. He keeps a box of Milk-Bones in his wheelchair. Three loves him.

A black SUV with tinted windows pulls up to the curb, more stealth-tank than Escalade. The Secret Service driver opens the side door, and the Honorable Senator John Caleb steps from the vehicle with heavy authority.

Dolly woofs a greeting and bounds toward him, but stops at his feet and sits, ears forward. The politician, whose rivals fade into obscurity, or are found at the bottom of lakes, looks almost human as he grins at his dog and rubs her head, the aura of power dissolving into doggy-talk murmurs of “Who’s a good girl?”

He feeds her a biscuit while Three spins in circles and pees on the sidewalk. The senator frowns at him. He still hasn’t forgiven Dolly for getting knocked up by an anonymous suitor. Normally, her pedigreed progeny collect ten thousand a pup, or union favors.

“I’ve found someone for the last one,” he says, nodding to the puppy.

Damn. I’m out of time.

“A girl lost her dog in a fire,” he says. In a neighborhood where he’s campaigning, I’m guessing. “We’re going to make a media moment of it. Can you be there?”

“What time, sir?” I won’t be in any of the photos, with my muddy paw wipes and poo baggies.

“Tomorrow, at four. Shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes. We’ll pick you up here.” He ushers Dolly into the van. I place the puppy in next to her, and the driver slides the door closed. The SUV rolls away, tinted windows hiding the world’s secrets.

“I’ve always wanted a big dog like that,” the veteran says. “Maybe someday.” The senator never once looked his direction. He’s got cool tattoos, a sleeve of coyotes howling at a watercolor sunset up his arm.

“I’ve always wanted ink like that,” I say, putting a five dollar bill in his cup, for the Milk-Bones. “Maybe someday.”


Ferdy meets me at the door, puppy barks and nippy teeth and sniffy nose. He’s a bundle of energy, mottled red and white patches, curly fur and curly tail, and huge feet. He doesn’t look like a rescue, abandoned by his mother at a week old. I’d bottle-fed him back to health.

He wrestles with my shoes and brings me his sock monkey for a game of tug of war. When he flops in exhaustion, I call every pet shop in town, until I find a male eight-week-old Saint Bernard Labrador cross, with Landseer markings. Close enough.

I pay a deposit to keep him until the morning, but I don’t sleep that night.


I’ve never been inside the Darth Vader van before. The driver rolls the side door open, and I get in. Three jumps all over me. My heart pounds a million beats a second, and I’m surprised the puppy doesn’t feel my tension. Dolly would have.

The senator is in the front seat, examining his teeth in the vanity mirror. “All set?”

It’s go time. “Yes, sir,” I say, then, as the driver eases from the curb, I squawk. “Oops! Wait, no, he’s going!”

I grab Three around his middle and hold him away from my body while I fumble for the door. He fights me, kicking at my hands and his collar. “Wait, Three! Please, not in the car!”

I hop out of the van and run to the grass, adrenaline surging through my muscles. Three escapes, barreling toward his friend with the Milk-Bones. The veteran nods once at me, then spins his chair so his back is to the SUV. After a quick glance around, he scoops Three up, and says, “Go.”

I lift the blanket on his knees and take the Saint Ber-Lab puppy body double. Unlike his wiggly twin, he obediently lets me clip on the leash. I stand and tell the man, “Thank you.”

“Thank you. I love this little guy.” He hides Three under the cover, and rolls away with a casual salute.

I climb back in the van. The driver is looking at the GPS screen. The senator is digging something out of his molars.

“Sorry about that, sir.”

“Better now than when the cameras are rolling,” he says as the SUV eases off the curb again. He doesn’t notice that Three 2.0 has gained four pounds in the last thirty seconds and smells slightly fishy with the squid ink I’d used to match up their markings.

I inhale, long and slow, forcing my breathing back to normal when no one asks any questions.

The little girl is delighted. The senator beams in the photos, securing another slew of votes.


A black Escalade slides up to my duplex, blocking the driveway. The warm evening goes silent, as if the neighborhood senses a threat.

My guts twist as the driver gets out, scans up and down the street, then rolls the side door open. Ferdy whines.

My door and windows are open to screens, and my lights are on. I’m obviously home. The backdoor only leads out to the front again. I step outside, onto the porch.

Dolly gives a low woof in greeting. She’s told firmly to Stay.

The driver ignores me, but I’m very aware of the pistol holster under his sport coat. Can Secret Service agents be forced to testify? The senator walks toward my house. Beneath my fear, I’m curious if he’s ever been to this end of town.

He halts at the bottom step and looks up at me. “Do we need to have a conversation?”

I fight the reflex to glance back inside my house. “About what, Senator?”

“I found this in the van last night.” He holds up Three’s purple collar. “But in our pictures, that girl is holding a puppy with a collar exactly like this one. I don’t like mysteries, especially in my personal life.”

“I switched them,” I say, hoping to deflect him with partial truths and feigned guilt. “Three isn’t quite housebroken yet, and I’d look bad too, if he had an accident at your photo op, and I knew someone perfect so—”

His gaze skewers me. “Did you sell them?”

“No, sir.” I swallow, hoping I don’t puke on his shoes.

His eyes flick over my shoddy little house, and land back on me, now with pity. “They aren’t worth anything, without breeding documents from the sire. And we don’t know who that is.”

Dolly sniffs at the air from the open door of the SUV.

“You do. You know who fathered them.” Senator Caleb lifts his head, the way a dog scents a trail. “I wondered if it happened on your watch. You were so eager to get rid of the litter for me. Don’t tell me it’s that weird skinny Egyptian hound—“

Astonishment washes over me. He doesn’t know.

My relief lasts two heartbeats, then I’m betrayed by Dolly’s questioning bark.

A joyful answering yip erupts from my house, and Ferdy cannonballs through my screen door. Dolly jumps out of the van, and meets him in the middle of the yard. She sniffs him from tail to ears. He nips her chin and rolls while she noses his belly, her maternal instinct kicking back in, even though she hasn’t seen him for six weeks.

“That’s the runt,” John Caleb says. “I thought she rejected it.”

“She did. I took him.”

“But why all the secrecy? I’d have just given him to you.” He bends to stroke the puppy’s coat, curlier and lighter than his litter twins. Dolly nudges the man’s shoulder as he gently draws Ferdy’s tail out straight and releases it. With a wag, it curls back over the puppy’s spine. “Cute little thing,” he says. “Reminds me of—“

The senator lurches to his feet, staring from Dolly to me to Ferdy. The Secret Service agent snaps to attention as the politician takes a horrified step away from his beloved pet.

“Their sire was a Wetterhoun.” I confirm his suspicions, keeping my voice soft. “How many Frisian Water Dogs has Dolly come in contact with, sir?”

We both know the answer. Only one, and he belongs to a certain Saudi prince the Honorable Senator has sworn under oath he hasn’t met.

He’s eerily calm for a man whose credibility and career are being threatened. “Where are the other pups?”

“They’re in good homes, with people who don’t know their lineage. And that’ll stay that way while we’re safe and sound.” I pick up Ferdy, and snuggle him to my chest, more for my comfort than his. He squirms a bit, then settles in and licks my chin. He has no idea that he’s DNA evidence of collusion, conspiracy, perjury and a whole lot of other things that would land the senator in jail.

He stares at me, brows drawn together. “But why?”

“Consider it witness protection.”

“I wouldn’t hurt a dog!” He’s genuinely offended. He’d send soldiers to war, and refuse to take care of them when they came home wounded or broken, but he’d never hurt a pet.

“I also meant me.”

“Ah.” He sighs, now a man not elevated by power, but bearing the weight of it. “Dammit, Dolly.”

She moves to sit in front of him, her ears pricked forward. Like an automaton, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a kibble treat. She wolfs it down, and he rubs her head. “So what do you want?”

“Well, sir, I have a list.”


Barbados is beautiful at the holidays. I throw a driftwood stick into the waves. Ferdy barks, then jumps into the surf.

The bartender calls from the cantina, and holds up my piña colada. I wave a thanks. The bandages on my arm itch, inked outlines peeking through, waiting their turn for color.

My phone buzzes with a news alert. In a surprise deviation from party stance, Sen. John Caleb approves millions in funding for the Service Dogs for Veterans program.

Ferdy comes back with a completely different stick. I ruffle his fur and throw again. I wonder if he’d like a pal to play fetch with, a Newfoundland, or an Irish Water Spaniel. Maybe someday.

What Fragrance would that Fictional Character Wear?

(Scentbird asked me to write an article for them! The original post is over here.)

What Fragrance would that Fictional Character Wear?

Authors are always looking for inspiration—from real life, from TV shows, from other books. Many of us make chapter playlists or cast their book as a movie while writing. As a romance author, I often look to perfume or cologne for a deeper sense of my characters’ personality.

Scentbird’s samples are the perfect amount to write a few chapters in a new point-of-view. Here are some of my favorite romance archetypes—matched up to a scent that tells us more about them—from the Scentbird subscription catalogue:


Our Heroine, intelligent and curious, armed with lowered lashes and snappy comebacks. She keeps a Swiss Army knife in her fox-shaped purse, and laughs at the weather. She’s a Veronica Mars or Lucy from The Hating Game kind of girl.
TRULYjoyful by Kate Spade suits her perfectly, with orange zest and sweet peppercorns and candied ginger, warm and breezy and bright.


The Brooding Hero with a pedigree and money he tries to hide behind hard work, tough callouses yet soft underneath, hard spine and melting heart. He’s the Mr. Darcy type, or T’Challa from Black Panther.
He’d wear John Varvatos, leather polished with amber, sweetened with vanilla and balsam fir needles in the spring.


No good story is complete without a gorgeous World-wise Woman With Impeccable Style—à la Jada Pinkett Smith’s Rome from Magic Mike XXL—who offers our hero stinging advice and smirks when he blushes.

Bright Crystal by Versace has that kind of elegance, peonies and pearls and a high slit skirt, tea served in a lotus garden.


The Quirky Underestimated Sidekick who cleans up nice out of the lab coat and saves the day with science—Sherlock’s Molly Hooper, or James Bond’s Q.

I am Trash by Etat Libre d’Orange is that clever, taking the peels left behind and turning them into an elixir of apples—pink blossoms, ripe fruit and woody stems.


The Sympathetic Bartender, the one who listens too close—breath brushing your skin—but you don’t move away. They could be the villain, but we won’t know until the end. Starring David Bowie, or Ruby Rose.
Juliette has a gun’s Moscow Mule is their signature cocktail: a double twist of lime over ginger ale and crushed ice, slid across a hardwood bar with a wink.


The Little Sister who causes trouble everywhere she goes—sometimes even on purpose—wears vintage silk skirts and glitter dust on her cheeks. She’s a grown up Luna Lovegood, a bohemian Alice Cullen from Twilight.

Get A Room by Confessions of a Rebel, with its lemon cream candy pillow-talk vibe, matches her flirtatious nature.


Our hero has a brief rival, the Unassuming Nice Guy, who steps in with a joke and a sweet crooked smile. (In our screenplay, we write the part with John Cho in mind.) His eyes whisper promises, but he doesn’t voice them.
He wears Versace’s Eros, cool spearmint and bright ambroxan, sweetened with tonka and spiked with vetiver, but he leaves lonely, until the third story in the series.

What perfume or cologne would your favorite characters wear?
And if only we could scent the pages!


soup heart crashThe NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge is an amazing competition (and community) with a fantastic peer crit forum.
In round one, 4500 entrants were put in 150 random heats with an assigned genre, character and prompt, and eight days to write a 2500 word story.  The top five in each group went on for another round with new assignments, fewer words and less time.
I wound up with Romantic Comedy, an X-ray Technician, and Comfort Food.
CRASH was judged first place in my heat.

An accident prone soup cook collides with an X-ray technician in a messy meet-cute.
Contains saucy tomato, lethal lentil and hot chili.

Time didn’t just stand still as Mina’s car slowly slid across the ice in the hospital parking lot. The seconds crystalized, hung in the air and shattered between the chimes of the left hand turn signal.

The Honda impaled itself on the bumper of a Jeep sporting a Boston Marathon sticker with a gentle crunch. The Thermos on the dash slid with the impact, knocked against the steering wheel and spewed hot liquid down the front of the coat Mina bought yesterday.

She sighed, swore, and turned the blinker off.

The door of the Jeep swung open, and the driver, in scrubs and a navy wool jacket, stepped around the vehicle. She had silver studs down her ears and an up-fade haircut, brown floppy bangs over her brow. Disappointment crossed her features as she peered at her bumper.

Mina rolled her window down. “I have insurance,” she said, cringing at the thought of how much her premium would go up.

“You didn’t even scratch me, but you’ll need a new headlight—oh, shit.” The color drained from the woman’s face and her eyes grew wide—ebony black eyes, and horrified. She grabbed the door handle and wrenched it open. “Are you alright?”

Mina looked down at herself and the steaming red stain covering her clothes. A waft of tomato basil rose from her lap.

“It’s just soup.” She squirmed out of her car, knees together, hoping to keep the liquid off the upholstery. “My lunch.”

The woman stared at her, long eyelashes and messy eyebrows. “You hit your head.”

Mina touched the bruise near her temple. “That’s from yesterday.” The glass oregano jar on the top shelf had fared much worse. She examined her broken light. Maybe she wouldn’t have to call her insurance agent after all, unless— “Do you want my number?”

The woman’s lips twitched, a smile quickly quelled.

“In case there’s something wrong with your car,” Mina said, heat rising from her face. A chunk of tomato slid from her coat to the ground, melting the ice with a hiss.

“It’s a Jeep. It’s fine.” Purple flashed at her collar, RADIOLOGY woven into the lanyard around her neck. She glanced at Mina’s head again, black eyes stealing the sparkle from the snow, from the sun. “You should get that checked.”

“I’m fine.” Mina took her coat off, folding the stain to the inside in a practiced motion, and got back into the car. She steered into the next empty spot without incident.

The parking lot was slushy in the sunlight and icy in the shade. Mina dodged puddles, clutching her apron and visor as she ran to the building entrance, shivering the whole way. An arm, sleeved in dark blue wool, kept the automatic door from closing.

“Thanks,” she said. “So you’re a radiologist?”

“X-ray tech,” the woman said, shaking her head. A man in blue scrubs careened into Mina as he backed through the door, shouting at someone down the corridor. The woman steadied her, palm flat between Mina’s shoulder blades.

“Shit,” the man said, pausing mid-stride. “Sorry, Rob.”

“That’s a radiologist,” the technician said, her voice wry with a smirk. She turned down the hall he had come, and disappeared around a corner.

Mina made her way to the tiny café in the tiny bookstore of the tiny Vermont hospital, and turned on the burners in the shiny new vending cart. She pulled her crocks from the refrigerator underneath, set them to simmer, then chopped fresh parsley and rosemary, and grated a block of cheddar.

At ten-thirty she grabbed a brown paper bag and called across the empty store, “I need to run an errand.”

“You’re not making deliveries, are you?” her boss asked. They were only allowed to sell food in the lobby, so as not to compete with the hospital cafeteria. Most of the staff didn’t even know The Cauldron existed yet, but visitors bought enough bowls to cover the organic ingredients and Mina’s hours. Usually.

“It’s a freebie,” she said.

The purple stripe on the wall led through three sets of doors and three hallways built in three different centuries, ending at an office shining with fluorescent lights.

A boy behind a partition clutched an armload of files, a phone receiver and a plastic sheet with a silhouette of a ribcage. A nurse waited nearby, drumming her fingernails on a tablet. Another phone rang as Mina approached. The youth looked at it in terror, then at Mina. “Can I help you?” he asked, helplessly.

“I’m looking for—” Roberta? Robin? “—Rob.”

“Robby!” he shrieked over his shoulder.

The Jeep owner appeared, and picked up the ringing phone. “Please hold,” she said, taking the files slipping from his grasp. She leaned toward the other receiver in the boy’s hand and said, “Three minutes, Doc,” while scanning a UPC label. She gave a folder to the nurse, then handed the others to someone behind her.

As stillness settled over the room, her eyes fell on Mina. One eyebrow quirked up, and a smile flickered at the corner of her mouth.

“I brought you some soup.” Mina held up the bag.

Rob disappeared, then a side door opened. She cocked her head, motioning Mina to come through, peering inside the offered bag.

“Chicken with Stars? Isn’t that for little kids?”

Mina shook her head. “Soup has no age limits, no political affiliations and no gender preference.”

“You serve soup at the café, and you brought more soup for lunch?”

“I like soup.” She shrugged. “It’s comfort food.”

“Smells good.” Robby set the bag on a desk, next to a picture of women in a kayak, laughing through a spray of water. Another frame held an aerial shot, parachutes dotting the scenery like rectangular flowers. “Thanks.”

She opened another door and ushered Mina inside a dim room—all four walls flanked with equipment—and patted a gurney. “Hop up.”

“I’m really fine,” Mina protested, but she lay on the bed poised at the opening of a machine shaped like a giant donut. Her heart pounded at the intimacy of the dark room and the dark bangs that shifted whenever Robby moved her head, begging for touch. Or maybe her fingers were the ones begging, desperate to know how soft the locks were.

“Any possibility you’re pregnant?” Robby lay a lead blanket over her torso, the weight both comfortable and alarming, like hands molding to Mina’s ribs, her breasts, her collarbone. When Mina shook her head, Robby flicked a switch on the wall, and a green light turned on somewhere, casting emerald sparks into her dark eyes. “Take a deep breath and hold it.”

“I know the drill.” She inhaled, and the inner ring of the chrome donut spun around her head. When it stopped, she exhaled, and the gurney rolled out of the machine.

Robby moved to the computer behind a glass wall, and after a few mouse clicks, she let out a low whistle. “Daaamn. How many times have you cracked your skull?”

“Six, I think. The first time was when I was four. Frontal bone. Thought a bread bowl would make a cool chef’s hat. Chipped my zygomatic bone when I was eight—walnuts in the blender wasn’t the wisest way to shell them, those suckers fly out of there fast as bullets. When I was fifteen, I broke my jaw in two places discovering that long hair and pasta machines don’t go well together.”

“All cooking related injuries?” She lifted the protective cover from Mina’s chest.

Mina shivered at the loss, as if she’d been stripped of her clothes. “No, my last girlfriend broke my nose with a bat.”

The x-ray tech’s eyes grew even darker, if that were possible.

“The bat had to have its wing splinted for two months. The petting zoo wasn’t my best date idea. Has anyone ever told you your eyes look like black holes?”

“What?” A mouse pen slipped from Robby’s fingers as she stilled. “Um. No.”

The strange compliment was also an accident, the words spilling unchecked from her lips, but Mina kept going. “They steal all the light from the room. In a good way. Like if they absorb enough stars they’ll explode.”

Robby blinked. “That sounds disgusting.”

“No, they’ll become new baby stars. That’s why I brought you the soup.”

The woman laughed, broad smile and shaking shoulders.

“Rob, I need you.” The young receptionist stepped into the room, his shoe landing on the pen.

Time passed in slow motion, holding its breath while the machines watched the boy’s foot roll out from under him. He lurched forward, staggering, but Robby grabbed his arm and hauled him upright.

“See? I’m a vortex of chaos.” Mina hopped off the gurney. “My mother calls me her happiest accident. My father calls me a banana peel.”

“You’re more like a butterfly,” Robby said, holding the door.

Mina shook her head as she followed the young man out. She wasn’t graceful or delicate—she was a June-bug, bumbling into porch lights and bashing screen doors.

“The one that flaps its wings and causes a tornado,” Robby called after her.

Mina walked back to the café, both stung and pleased by the teasing, her face hot and her heart beating too hard—as if her soul had been scanned to the bone by the woman with x-ray eyes.

She pushed her cart to the edge of the bookstore’s allotted frontage, and stirred the chili after setting the wheel locks. The lunch rush passed slowly, one bowl at a time with fresh herbs on top, and yes, the crackers are homemade.

At three o’clock she covered her crocks. As she put the cheese into the fridge compartment underneath, a familiar voice grew close—the radiologist, walking backward as he spoke, gesturing with his hands.

Mina called a warning, too late.

Time didn’t just halt as the man stumbled over the tiny portable kitchen, it stopped to take pictures, the moments clicking past frame by frame as he flailed, grabbing the three gallon pot of lentil soup. The tureen upended onto his feet and sailed down the hall on a river of vegan broth—celery and smoked cashew—the lid clanging the floor like a fallen cymbal. The doctor’s balance gave way and he fell to his knees, arms whirling as he slid on the floor, following the pot.

He scrambled on the polished floor, grabbing at the wall, and slipped onto his back, spinning, an overturned turtle. Reaching blind, he pulled himself up by a handhold on the wall. The red lever in his grip gave way as he skidded again, and the fire alarm blared through the building.

The scent of coriander filled the lobby as people flowed out of the corridors. When the crowd ebbed, Mina looked up to find Robby staring back from the hall with the purple stripe, shaking her head in disbelief.

Mina’s face flushed with embarrassment. The x-ray technician was the calm in the eye of the hurricane, helping nurses usher their patients, guiding the traffic leaving the building.

Mina turned away, heading for the utility closet housing the mop bucket. A security guard stopped her on the way back. “We’ll take care of it, Miss. You need to move your kiosk.”

She wheeled her cart outside to the parking lot, where people shuffled around snow plow icebergs, muttering to each other and texting. A cold wind had people rubbing their arms over their chests. Mina shivered and warmed her hands on the chili pot.

“I’d take some of that,” a nurse said, reaching for his wallet.

She ladled a bowl and retrieved the cheese. “On the house.”

Soon her cart was crowded. People in every color of scrubs imaginable, a few patients in gowns and blankets, family with get-well-soon bouquets and it’s-a-boy balloons all wanted a dish to warm their hands and their stomachs.

She was down to four paper bowls and completely out of cheese when a large woman in a chef’s coat—double buttons like a policeman’s uniform—lifted the lid and sniffed the last of the chili. “Turmeric?”

Mina nodded. The cook plucked a plastic spoon and scraped at the bottom of the pot.

She tasted it, and her eyes narrowed. “How much do you charge?”

“Four a cup, seven a bowl. But only in designated vending areas, of course.”

“And for the recipe?” The chef smiled.

Before Mina could respond, a cheer ran through the crowd. The lobby doors opened, and the firemen waved them inside.

“Come see me tomorrow morning.” The cook dug another spoonful with a fresh spoon and walked inside. “I want this on my menu.”

Yellow mop signs dotted the lobby like crime scene markers, but the janitors wouldn’t let her help clean the mess. After her crocks were clean, she took stock of ingredients and made a shopping list. She’d have to start from scratch tomorrow.

She’d lost a huge profit in the spill and the subsequent giveaway, but the entire staff of the hospital knew The Cauldron existed now. Her boss was pleased. Mina waved to the murmured thanks from almost everyone she passed as she left the building.

“Hey, Butterfly. Wait up.” The x-ray tech jogged through the doors, stopping on the edge of the sidewalk.

“You sure?” Mina spun a finger in the air. “I’ve been making tornadoes all day long.”

The dark bangs fell forward, tangling in the long lashes as Robby looked at the ground. “Nothing happens to me. I see all these patients day in and day out—arms broken by lacrosse sticks, concussions by the ambulance load, stomachs with pennies, wedding rings, forks. You don’t even want to know what people will shove up their ass.” She grimaced, and looked over the parking lot. “But I’ve never even broken my toe. I’ve jumped out of airplanes and skied every trail on Killington, Stowe and Sugarbush, and never hit my head once. Or sprained a wrist. The only time I’ve come close to a car wreck was this morning. Today was my first fire alarm.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“I’m not.” She looked up, catching Mina’s gaze. “I don’t want it to stop.”

Elation curled down Mina’s spine and pooled in her belly. “I could make you dinner.”


“Of course!”  She grinned so hard her face hurt. She reached up to kiss the woman’s cheek, giddy and flirtatious—and Robby turned her head.

Time stopped.

The moment hung in the air between heartbeats as Mina’s kiss landed square on Robby’s mouth. She gasped at the heat of the woman’s lips, and the softness.

Behind them, anti-lock brakes protested, and metal crashed into glass.

Home from RWA 2018

Home from RWA 2018

I hadn’t originally planned on going to the Romance Writers of America 2018 annual conference, but I’m so glad I did.


From the hotel window

Denver was beautiful and a western urban bohemian paradise, and HIGH. (No, I didn’t partake, as I wanted to actually remember my weekend, though I admit being curious about the “Pot Rocks” candy.)
By Friday I was getting the altitude wobbles and on Saturday I woke up dizzy–I’ve never been that far above sea-level outside an airplane.
The food was lovely everywhere. Yes, avocado toast is a thing, and it’s great. So is strawberry-rhubarb jelly/pastry/cheesecake sauce.

Like last year, the best part of the conference were the conversations with writers in all stages on a variety of career paths:


Tiffany Reisz signing The Night Mark

I had a blast hanging out with Original Sinners author Tiffany Reisz while she did RITA finalist (for The Night Mark) stuff, and got to eavesdrop on Andrew Shaffer’s phone interview as his new book (Hope Never Dies) hit the NYT bestseller list.

Had my assumptions gleefully spanked by an octogenarian author in the elevator.

Jenn LeBlanc talked about her photography and publishing process on her illustrated romances and introduced me to the Lovestruck interactive story app.

Had drinks with two other pink-haired erotica writers and laughed over phrases like “It’s like D&D but with sex,” and “I’m not afraid of fluids.”

Thien-Kim Lam (check out her subscription service Bawdy Bookworms) and I were often table mates and she is so. much. fun.


Feeling the elevation: 1 mile above sea level

(Even briefly took the wrong train to the airport because I was gushing with a romantic suspense writer who’d been asked for a full manuscript for the first time, rather than paying attention to the station map.)

Brenda Jackson told us about how her fans have helped her choose cover models. (How fun would that be!?)

To the two women at our table who were offended by Suzanne Brockmann’s incredible speech, I’m okay with the door hitting your homophobic ass on the way out.
Love is love is love, and yes, I’m done with being nice.


Dancing bronzes in the hotel courtyard

I went to a bunch of workshops:
The mystery whodunnit dessert party was both silly and cool–comedy and lots of explanations of forensic terms.
The session that really rocked my brain was “The Psychology of Fiction,” by YA author  Dr. Jennifer Lynn Barnes.
She talked about what elements of bestsellers are the universals that readers want. I can’t wait for her book on this to come out.

Self-pubbed covers are getting GOOD, y’all, but I only saw three women of color at the indie book signing. We have to do better.

If last summer was eyeglass porn, RWA 2018 was the year of beautiful business card cases and gorgeous plus-size fashion–sooo many bold prints and sassy skirts and all-body-love dresses.

And, I found out that Beverly Jenkins listens to Robert Plant, which makes me happy.

(…dusts this thing off…)

rwaStill here.
Still writing!
I’ve been researching scent and perfume again–I scribble about it over here, if you like reading about stinky stuff.

Had a busy year! I took a big step and converted my sewing studio into a writing room. Words seem more where my energy is flowing lately, rather than fabric.

Been doing a bunch of beta-reading and contest judging. Feels good to give back a little.

rwa1I went to RWA 2017 in Orlando, and it was overwhelming but wonderful.
I spent a lot of time with my agent, grilling her about how the whole publishing industry works, and I got to meet a bunch of awesome people I’ve known online for almost a decade.
Carina Press treated me like a rock star.
Authors and romance books and panels and classes and So. Many. Desserts.

(there *might* be an outline of a pâtisserie romance on my desk right now…)

A costumer’s thoughts upon the recent appropriation of Safety Pins:

safety_pinSafety pins are not meant to be passive—a furtive steel prick of conscience—hidden on a lapel like a secret handshake. They are tools of healing, kinetic kindness given to strangers, a means to spring into action.

They are to be freely offered in the name of Girl-Code:
To secure a hijab slipping from grace, and pull up restaurant restroom zippers on skinny jeans stressed to self-destruction, to raise the brim higher on an Easter Sunday crown, and bridge that third button gap in every blouse designed by man.

A pin in stasis rusts closed.

Reattach a ruffle of a neighbor’s quinceañera gown, tend to a yarmulke where the satin has slid from the seam, extend the strap on the stiletto of a size fourteen queen.

Wear them with responsibility, with a woman’s vigilance, a first-aid-kit used long before the shine is noticed on a collar. Safety pins are not a dormant decoration to define your clandestine tolerance—they are a conscious means to a mend.

Elie Wiesel and a child’s fear

elieWhen I was little my father took me everywhere with him. I was a reasonably well behaved kid, and could be tucked in a corner with a book while he conducted a rehearsal or gave a voice lesson. Once, as we went to a meeting with someone about a concert his orchestra was playing, he gave me the usual spiel: please and thank you, sit still, don’t say fuck or shit, and if I was offered sweets, accept if I wanted it or not and say I’d save it for after dinner.
Fundraising is tricky. It is important to say yes, to welcome all gifts, no matter how small.

The man was thin and taller than my dad, with bushy gray hair and pale skin and an accent like a vampire movie. I thought he looked like a ghost, but the room was full of books, wall to wall to ceiling, and ghosts didn’t read.

When their meeting was over, the man offered me a doll.
I panicked–dolls had always scared me, with their dead eyes and lax limbs–and I misbehaved. “Daddy, I don’t want it!”
My father was embarrassed, and told him I had always been a little afraid of dolls, and the man smiled and said, “That is a good fear for a child to have.”

I never saw him again, or even thought about him, until high school and my English teacher passed out NIGHT, and there was his photo on the back cover, looking exactly the same. It was only after I read the book that I understood how lucky I was, that my kid fears were only of ghosts and dolls.

“The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.” -Elie Wiesel (1928-2016)

Personal Confessions and Tiffany gems.

41GtTg20zcL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_One of the things I love about Tiffany Reisz is how personally her writing hits me. Beyond the wit and the banter and the sexy feels, there is always a theme that grabs at a deeper internal level. Sometimes there’s a kink that pushes my curiosity and makes me wonder if my hard limits have cracks in their rigid walls. Sometimes I get a new understanding of doctrine and faith. Nothing is left untouched in her frank discussions of sex, feminism and religion.
THE CONFESSIONS delves into this almost exclusively. Two short stories-conversations with one of my favorite characters, Father Ballard (from POINSETTIA)-and an author interview. It’s a quick companion to the Original Sinners series.

The first story, THE CONFESSION OF MARCUS STEARNS is a lovely peek into Søren’s mind, and probably the closest we will get to his PoV. His interaction with his Jesuit friend and confessor-an insightful and liberal priest with good taste in music-is hysterical. The descriptions of Eleanor are melting.
The second story, THE CONFESSION OF ELEANOR SCHREIBER, is Nora’s unloading on the same priest, a look at choices and hidden desires that stabbed me sweetly in my barren guts as she discusses her decisions about childbirth.

The last third of the book, THE CONFESSION OF TIFFANY REISZ, is a conversation with romance critic Cyndy Aleo. The interview is hilarious, running the spectrum of Catholicism to kink. The two discuss the Church and the biblical parallels of the characters in the Original Sinners, gospel passages and other Christian Literature. They also talk about the distinctions between “safe consensual” play and “risk aware” play, and pushing the limits of dubious consent. Another thoughtful conversation delves into the age of teenage sexual agency-again, a topic hitting close to home for me-I’ve also written on that particular knife edge of moral discomfort.
This section was a special treat. I met Cyndy online in 2009, and fell in love with her writing, her endless pursuit of the sexy off-beat and sensually creative, and her acerbic honesty. Recently, she has edited four of my manuscripts, so in a fashion, she is also my confessor. Three years ago, Cyndy was also the one who said “You must read THE ANGEL, or I’m not speaking to you again.” I did, of course, and then looked up the author on twitter, and said, “Wait–I’ve met you!”
A few years previously I was at a book event at Joseph Beth, my favorite local bookseller, and a friend of the featured author was there-a vivacious woman, jubilant because she had just signed on with an agent for her literary erotica.
Turns out, Tiffany Reisz lived in my hometown. Fast forward to 2014-she invited me to a writer’s crit group at the library. Afterward I met her and her guy (Andrew Shaffer) and had one of the funniest, most encouraging and inspiring conversations over a cup of Starbucks I’ve ever had. (They promptly moved across the country.)
So I confess I have to agree with Cyndy, despite the author’s protests, when she says that Tiffany is the embodiment of Nora: petite, dark haired, clever and funny, with an unrivaled boldness about sex, God and writing. But that’s only a little sin, and I’m sure Father Ballard would forgive me.

THE CONFESSIONS is quite spoilery, (there’s even an Easter egg Fun Fact appendix at the end) so I would recommend reading the entire series before grabbing this little jewel.