Serena BellSerena Bell
USA Today Bestselling Author
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Tuesday Tidbit: “Right Thing” Moments & Giveaway

Serena Bell

January 14, 2014

This contest is now closed—thanks so much to everyone who visited, commented, and shared! Justine is the winner; I’ll email her separately about claiming her prize.

Even though I’ve realized a lifelong dream of becoming a published author, I don’t always feel like I know what I’m doing. In fact, I often feel quite lost.

This holiday season, I’ve been paying attention to when I don’t feel lost. And I’ve realized that there are quite a few of these moments. I think of them as “right thing” moments, those moments when suddenly I am aware that whatever I am doing is exactly what I’m meant to be doing, that there’s no disconnect between who I want to be and who I am.

The first of these came when I was addressing Christmas cards. Every year, I sent a Christmas card to an old friend of my late grandmother’s. I loved my grandmother so much, but she died when I was fourteen, and I never had the chance to know her as an adult. Writing to her friend each year makes me feel like I still have a connection to my grandmother. What’s more, my grandmother’s (now very elderly & widowed) friend is so deeply grateful for the card that she always sends me a thank you note. When I addressed my card to her this year, I suddenly had the sense that if I had done nothing else in 2013 that mattered, spiritually or cosmically, sending that card did.

The other night, one of my friends, who like me is new to town, celebrated her birthday. Her husband invited a few friends to get together, and we all went out to dinner. The dinner was over at nine, and the party started to break up, and I could see from her face that she desperately needed us to keep celebrating her birthday. My house was a mess, and I had nothing to serve, but I knew I had to keep the evening going for her. So I invited everybody over and made some cocktails and served them microwave popcorn and chocolate chip cookies. When they arrived, there was a giant pile of unfolded laundry on my armchair. Two of the women folded some of it for me. It almost made me cry. At the end of the evening my friend hugged me so hard it hurt.

Last night, my daughter was having a really hard time with her geometry homework. She didn’t seem to be able to actually see the angles. She couldn’t figure out how to name them with three letters, like ABC. She struggled and struggled, and she got more and more frustrated. I sat down with her, and we went over the entire assignment carefully, in detail, with me teaching her all the parts she didn’t know. It took more than an hour, and she wasn’t always nice to me. But she was really proud of herself when she finished that homework, and I knew she’d learned something.

I wish there were more of these moments, the ones where I knowCatch of the Day cover I’ve done something that matters. I wish I knew how to make more of them, and I wish I had the willpower and the time and the personal resources to make them happen all day every day. But I am so grateful for the ones that do happen, and I am so lucky to have those “right thing” moments in my life.

This weekend I read Kristin Higgins’ Catch of the Day. It made me laugh and cry. The hero is not someone who is constantly engaging in acts of random kindness, but twice in the book, he does the “right thing” when it matters, and it means so much to the heroine.

Comment on a “right thing” moment in your life, and you’ll be entered to win an ebook copy of Catch of the Day. You must be 18 or older to enter, and live in the US or Canada.

 

 

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Tuesday Tidbit: Vacation Vows & Giveaway

Serena Bell

January 7, 2014

This contest is now closed—thank you to everyone who visited and/or commented! The winner is Steph M; Steph, I’ll email you directly about your prize.

I make a lot of vacation vows. While strolling on the beach or playing a leisurely board game with my kids, as I sip cocktails with friends or spend an hour or two “just browsing” books or clothes, I think, I’m going to learn from this. When I go back to my desk, when the kids go back to school, I’m going to take things slower. I’m not going to overcommit us. I’m not going to get sucked into my inbox, drowned by my obligations, or tyrannized by my to-do list.

Ha.

This vacation, in particular, I made some vows. I knew going into this holiday break—sixteen days off from school for the kids—that it might not be the most relaxing vacation ever. I had a Christmas blog tour for Heating Up the Holidays, a new release for Still So Hot! and I have a manuscript due to my editor at the end of January (my June release, Hold On Tight). So I knew I wasn’t going to be able to drop everything and eat bon-bons for sixteen days. And I knew I’d have some struggles with figuring out how to balance much-needed quality time with my kiddos and the obligations that weren’t going to disappear just because school had closed.

I decided to cut out as much of the non-writing work as possible for those sixteen days—all the promo and business and administrative pieces, including, except where fun and necessary, email and social media. I told myself I would give myself two small blocks of time each day, one early in the day and one later, to write, and that in between, I would relax and enjoy my kids and my vacation.

Lo and behold, there was a productivity explosion. In those two short blocks per day, I got more writing done—by an order of magnitude—than I had during all the preceding weeks when I’d been writing (or theoretically writing) for four, five and six hours at a time.

I also discovered that I enjoy writing with my laptop on my lap and in locations I didn’t realize I even could write happily.

So I vowed to try to make my real life more like vacation. That means prioritizing walks outside over “productivity,” and short periods of serious, intensive writing over long periods of time theoretically producing words.  It means always knowing what I’m doing when I sit down with my computer and not allowing myself to get sucked into other tasks. It means writing at cafes or even while I wait for my daughter at basketball or gymnastics, even if writing on my lap isn’t ergonomically correct and writing in the evenings isn’t part of my routine. But it also means knowing when I’ve gotten out of myself all that it’s reasonable to expect for a given day, and when it’s time to just be with my kids (or clean my house).

Probably this vow won’t last much longer than my New Year’s resolutions, but the reason I think it stands a chance is that I saw firsthand how well it worked. Being more relaxed and Listed covereasier with myself made me get MORE work done, not less.

What did you learn about yourself, your family, or your household on this vacation (or, if you didn’t get much or any time off, during the holidays)? What New Year’s resolutions or vacation vows did you make? Do you feel like they might stick?

Comment below and be entered to win a complete ebook copy of Noelle Adams’ serial novel, Listed, which I read and loved over vacation (the heroine is in a unique position to think about how she wants to live her life, and makes a set of vows, of a sort). You must be 18+ to enter and live in the U.S. or Canada (or somewhere where I can gift you an item from Barnes & Noble or Amazon). The contest runs through 11:59 p.m. PST on Thursday, January 9.

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Still So Hot! Is Out! and Giveaway

Serena Bell

January 1, 2014

This contest is now closed. Thank you to everyone who visited and commented. Congratulations to Lori Payer, the contest winner! Lori, I’ll contact you directly about your prize.

Happy New Year! It’s the first day of 2014, and Still So Hot! is officially on bookshelves and etailers’ sites.

Still So Hot! is the story of Elisa Henderson, a dating coach who’s way better at fixing her clients’ love lives than her own. En route to the Caribbean, where she’s headed with her new celebrity client, she runs headlong—literally—into the one man she ever made the mistake of letting herself love. As if that’s not bad enough, the reason Brett Jordan—serial short-term monogamist, ex-best-friend, and all-around hottie—is on Elisa’s flight to begin with is because her client invited him along. And even though a lot of time has passed since Elisa has seen Brett—

Yep. Their chemistry is Still! So! Hot!

Before Still So Hot! got its title—and its exclamation point—it was called Are You With Me? and had a question mark. It is clearly a book that is destined to be surrounded by punctuation. It’s very hard to talk about the book at all without feeling breathless! like! this!

The cover, of course, contributes to the effect:

9780373797851

But aside from Brett and his swim trunks, I am a bit breathless, because it’s a great feeling to send a book out in the world, to share it with people, to watch them fall in love with my hero and heroine, too.

I’m also rather breathless with gratitude, because so many people helped get this B&N w shelfmatesbook to where it is. An incredibly supportive husband and kiddos. Author friends who saved my sanity. Amazing critique partners who bore with the book through a ridiculous number of drafts (Ruthie Knox holds the record). A terrific agent who believed in it—Emily Sylvan Kim of Prospect Agency. Three different developmental editors, especially Harlequin’s delightful Dana Hopkins. Harlequin’s talented team of artists, designers, photographers, copy & production editors, and marketing and promo geniuses. And readers, reviewers, and bloggers who’ve given the book a chance and put their time into promoting, advance-reading, and reviewing it. I couldn’t have done it without any of you. (There are exclamation points in my heart!)

Blaze bundleIn addition, I’m feeling lucky to have new partners this time around—Blaze shelf mates. Still So Hot! debuts alongside Unforgettable by Samantha Hunter, Texas Outlaws: Jesse by USA TODAY bestselling author Kimberly Raye, and My Secret Fantasies by NEW YORK TIMES bestselling author Joanne Rock. And it’s in honor of them that I am doing today’s giveaway (in lieu of my usual Tuesday Tidbit giveaway that would have appeared yesterday):

Please comment by January 5, 2013, 11:59 p.m. PST on anything that you feel deserves a (positive) exclamation point today (don’t forget the actual exclamation point, please!), and I’ll choose one random commenter to win the entire January Blaze ebook bundle detailed above. (If you win and you don’t read ebooks, you can elect to receive a signed copy of Still So Hot! instead.) You must be over 18 to enter; U.S. and Canada only, please.

Excerpt from Still So Hot!

Copyright © 2014 Serena Bell
All rights reserved

Elisa Henderson had imagined worst-case-scenario headlines even before her plane took off.

Dating Coach Misplaces Client.

Client Goes AWOL from Dating Boot Camp in Caribbean.

God, this was not comforting. She needed to get up. She needed to move. Most of all, she needed to find out whether Celine Carr had made the flight. But she couldn’t do that until the Fasten Seat Belt sign blinked off.

She’d gotten Celine’s text just as Elisa had arrived at the gate. Thru security. Gotta pee. Board without me. She’d taken her seat in coach—alone, since Celine had claimed the last available in first class. Elisa tried to catch a glimpse of Celine, but the aisles were filled with other passengers. By the time Elisa had realized they were about to take off, she still didn’t know if Celine was on the plane, and the flight attendants wouldn’t let Elisa up. She’d tried to call and text Celine a million times, until a redheaded flight attendant pleaded with Elisa to put the cell phone away before she got them both in trouble.

Now all she could do was cross her fingers and try not to fidget.

Think positive. She’s on the plane. She’s raring to go.

This is the weekend you teach her that she calls the shots. That she controls her dating destiny.

This is the weekend you make hiring a dating coach the new black.

She took a few deep breaths and focused on positive visualization, which always helped her beat stress: Celine, sitting in first class, smiling and signing autographs, ready to make the best promo video ever. Celine, strolling the white-sand beach at the edge of the aquamarine Caribbean, hair blowing in the breeze, beside a handsome, attentive man. Celine, confident and competent, beaming her appreciation as she said to Elisa, Thank you. You helped me see that I didn’t have to keep making the same dating mistakes. The right man was out there. Imaginary Celine tossed her hair, gave her guy a sidelong glance and linked her fingers through his. Thank you for this wonderful man.

Elisa loved the thrill of the match, the click of satisfaction she felt when she fit two people together like puzzle pieces. Plus, she loved running boot camps, intensive one-on-one weekends where she observed her clients in real-world dating situations and taught them new strategies. These weekends were a great chance to get to know a client well, learn her quirks and boost her self-esteem. And who could argue with a weekend in the Caribbean? Elisa was lucky that her sister’s friend knew Celine’s publicist, Haven, and had been willing to put them in touch. And maybe a little bit lucky, too, that Celine was already undergoing a major image revamp as Haven tried to halt her slide toward celebrity train wreck. It hadn’t been too hard to convince Haven that a high-profile boot camp could turn Celine into a dating role model instead of someone whose antics reporters mocked. And if Elisa could make that happen for a rising star like Celine Carr, she’d have the added bonus of building her business’s brand in a big way.

On the other hand, if Celine had missed the flight, Elisa would step off this plane into a barrage of firing flashbulbs and mocking voices calling out, “Where is she?”

Rendezvous Dating? Isn’t that the business run by Elisa Henderson? The one who lost Celine Carr on the way to St. Barts?

She knocked her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes.

The seat belt chime sounded. She unbuckled herself and hurried down the aisle.

“Whoa,” said a deep voice, very close. She drew up abruptly to avoid a collision, and, for a moment, her mind was overwhelmed by a confusion of hands steadying her, a broad chest blocking her view and the smell of soap.

Then the voice said, “Lise?”

No. No. It wasn’t possible. She knew that voice. Way too well. That voice represented a years-old friendship and B-grade movies and Chinese takeout and Scrabble games and that bar they’d gone to so often, the Aquarium…

The eerie light of that bar, a blue-tinged drunken haze, the stumbling walk home, her couch, his fingers in her hair, the taste of a mouth she’d longed for so badly she hadn’t admitted it to herself, his tongue stroking hers, waking up every nerve ending in her entire body…

What the hell was Brett Jordan doing on her flight to the Caribbean?

She lifted her gaze and, unwillingly, took him in.

Dark hair, just long enough to be tousled. Harder-edged and squarer-jawed than he’d been at twenty-five. But cute, too—a vague upturn at the end of his nose, a slight cleft in his chin and the suggestion of dimples. He was the very definition of masculinity—and he wasn’t much farther from her face than he’d been that night when he’d finally, finally lowered his lips to hers.

Two years hadn’t quenched one ounce of the thirst. She could feel it, a sharp want that lit up all the tender parts of her mouth. She could feel it in her teeth, too. She’d nipped his lower lip that night, and he’d made a sound that didn’t have a name.

She wanted to close her eyes and shut him out—and she wanted him to pick up where he’d left off.

Oh, of all the cosmic slaps across the face. No. Please no. Not him. Not now.

 

Tuesday Tidbit, Uncategorized 3 comments

Tuesday Tidbit: Still So Hot! giveaway

Serena Bell

December 17, 2013

This contest is now closed. Thanks so much to everyone who visited, commented, and signed up for my newsletter!

It appears that you can now purchase Still So Hot! in paperback from Amazon  and Barnes & Noble (though technically its release date is Jan 1). Still So Hot! is my debut Harlequin Blaze, the story of a dating coach, Elisa, who flies with her prize celebrity client to a resort in the Caribbean to help her protege become a more successful (and less self-destructive) winner of men’s hearts. Only, en route, they acquire a third party: Elisa’s ex-one-time-super-hot-not-quite-realized fling and former best friend, Brett Jordan.

It’s not my first published story, or even my first published novel, but it’s my very first paperback, and I have a special relationship with it. A few weeks ago, I got this in the mail:

Box of paperbacks

At first, I was kind of nonchalant. I have three stories out there already, stories that people have bought and read and reviewed, loved and hated (though, thankfully, not in equal proportions). So what’s the big deal about this box of 48 books? (Aside from the fact that the cover is quite aesthetically pleasing, that is.)

My nonchalance lasted until I happened to pick up one of the books and thumbed through it, and then it was all over, because my brain—the reptilian, primitive part that’s often useless but sometimes way smarter than I am—registered exactly what the big deal was. OMG! It said as I mindlessly rifled pages. YOU WROTE THOSE WORDS.

And there it was, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, the power of the “real” book.

Don’t get me wrong. I love e-books. Love them. I read almost exclusively e-books. And my first three books? All, quite happily, e. But there was something about this experience, of holding my paper self in my hands, that was brand new, and deeply lovely.

So you guys can go ahead and lick the cover all you want. I’ll just stand here and flip through these pages, admiring MY WORDS. (Scroll down for an excerpt!)

I’m going to give a signed paperback copy of Still So Hot! to one random winner of today’s giveaway (must be 18 years or older and in U.S. or Canada). To enter, you have to do two things:

1. Sign up for my newsletter here. It’s infrequent and you’ll be notified when, for example, the e-version of Still So Hot! is available.

2. Comment below and tell me whether you e-read (and which reader) or read paperbacks (and, if you want, why).

Excerpt from Still So Hot!

Copyright © 2014 Serena Bell
All rights reserved — Harlequin Enterprises

Elisa Henderson had imagined worst-case-scenario headlines even before her plane took off.

Dating Coach Misplaces Client.

Client Goes AWOL from Dating Boot Camp in Caribbean.

God, this was not comforting. She needed to get up. She needed to move. Most of all, she needed to find out whether Celine Carr had made the flight. But she couldn’t do that until the Fasten Seat Belt sign blinked off.

She’d gotten Celine’s text just as Elisa had arrived at the gate. Thru security. Gotta pee. Board without me. She’d taken her seat in coach—alone, since Celine had claimed the last available in first class. Elisa tried to catch a glimpse of Celine, but the aisles were filled with other passengers. By the time Elisa had realized they were about to take off, she still didn’t know if Celine was on the plane, and the flight attendants wouldn’t let Elisa up. She’d tried to call and text Celine a million times, until a redheaded flight attendant pleaded with Elisa to put the cell phone away before she got them both in trouble.

Now all she could do was cross her fingers and try not to fidget.

Think positive. She’s on the plane. She’s raring to go.

This is the weekend you teach her that she calls the shots. That she controls her dating destiny.

This is the weekend you make hiring a dating coach the new black.

She took a few deep breaths and focused on positive visualization, which always helped her beat stress: Celine, sitting in first class, smiling and signing autographs, ready to make the best promo video ever. Celine, strolling the white-sand beach at the edge of the aquamarine Caribbean, hair blowing in the breeze, beside a handsome, attentive man. Celine, confident and competent, beaming her appreciation as she said to Elisa, Thank you. You helped me see that I didn’t have to keep making the same dating mistakes. The right man was out there. Imaginary Celine tossed her hair, gave her guy a sidelong glance and linked her fingers through his. Thank you for this wonderful man.

Elisa loved the thrill of the match, the click of satisfaction she felt when she fit two people together like puzzle pieces. Plus, she loved running boot camps, intensive one-on-one weekends where she observed her clients in real-world dating situations and taught them new strategies. These weekends were a great chance to get to know a client well, learn her quirks and boost her self-esteem. And who could argue with a weekend in the Caribbean? Elisa was lucky that her sister’s friend knew Celine’s publicist, Haven, and had been willing to put them in touch. And maybe a little bit lucky, too, that Celine was already undergoing a major image revamp as Haven tried to halt her slide toward celebrity train wreck. It hadn’t been too hard to convince Haven that a high-profile boot camp could turn Celine into a dating role model instead of someone whose antics reporters mocked. And if Elisa could make that happen for a rising star like Celine Carr, she’d have the added bonus of building her business’s brand in a big way.

On the other hand, if Celine had missed the flight, Elisa would step off this plane into a barrage of firing flashbulbs and mocking voices calling out, “Where is she?”

Rendezvous Dating? Isn’t that the business run by Elisa Henderson? The one who lost Celine Carr on the way to St. Barts?

She knocked her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes.

The seat belt chime sounded. She unbuckled herself and hurried down the aisle.

“Whoa,” said a deep voice, very close. She drew up abruptly to avoid a collision, and, for a moment, her mind was overwhelmed by a confusion of hands steadying her, a broad chest blocking her view and the smell of soap.

Then the voice said, “Lise?”

No. No. It wasn’t possible. She knew that voice. Way too well. That voice represented a years-old friendship and B-grade movies and Chinese takeout and Scrabble games and that bar they’d gone to so often, the Aquarium…

The eerie light of that bar, a blue-tinged drunken haze, the stumbling walk home, her couch, his fingers in her hair, the taste of a mouth she’d longed for so badly she hadn’t admitted it to herself, his tongue stroking hers, waking up every nerve ending in her entire body…

What the hell was Brett Jordan doing on her flight to the Caribbean?

 

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Yours to Keep Thanksgiving Tour

Serena Bell

November 24, 2013

YoursToKeep-200My Tuesday Tidbit giveaways will take a two week Thanksgiving hiatus and return Tuesday, December 10. In the meantime, please join me in visiting eleven very cool book bloggers for a special holiday tour in honor of Yours to Keep!

From November 24th through December 1 at 11:59 p.m. you can enter the Rafflecopter giveaway on any of the blog sites listed here to enter to win copies of Yours to Keep, Samantha Kane’s Devil in My Arms, a fantastic Thanksgiving stash of your favorite romances, and/or a $20 gift card for the etailer of your choice.

I’ll post permalinks directly to my blog posts as they become available–in the meantime, the links below should take you to a general blog link.

 

11/24/13 – Romance At Random

11/25/13- Book Binge
And, Drey’s Library

11/26/13 – Steamy Guys After Dark

11/27/13 – Seaside Book Nook

11/28/13 – Fictional Candy
Plus, All Romance Cafe

11/29/13 – Fiction Vixen

11/30/13 – Harlequin Book Junkie

12/1/13- Book Nympho
And, From the TBR Pile

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Tuesday Tidbit: Wild Child Giveaway

Serena Bell

November 19, 2013

Wild Child cover

This contest is now closed—thank you commenters! Steph M is the winner; I’ll email her directly.

I just finished Molly O’Keefe’s compulsively readable Wild Child. 

Monica Appleby is a woman with a reputation. Once she was America’s teenage “Wild Child,” with her own reality TV show. Now she’s a successful author coming home to Bishop, Arkansas, to pen the juicy follow-up to her tell-all autobiography. Problem is, the hottest man in town wants her gone. Mayor Jackson Davies is trying to convince a cookie giant to move its headquarters to his crumbling community, and Monica’s presence is just too . . . unwholesome for business. But the desire in his eyes sends a very different message: Stay, at least for a while.

Jackson needs this cookie deal to go through. His town is dying and this may be its last shot. Monica is a distraction proving too sweet, too inviting—and completely beyond his control. With every kiss he can taste her loneliness, her regrets, and her longing. Soon their uncontrollable attraction is causing all kinds of drama. But when two lost hearts take a surprise detour onto the bumpy road of unexpected love, it can only lead someplace wonderful.

One big reason I couldn’t stop turning pages was how evocatively O’Keefe details the attraction between hero and heroine. It’s—to shamelessly steal a phrase Mary Ann Rivers, author of The Story Guy and Snowfall, used in an email to me yesterday (in an unrelated context)—“crazy, insane, beautiful horniness.”

Here are two of my favorite lusciously sexy moments:

There was something about her smart mouth, her irreverence, that made him want to bite her. It was a fire in his blood—a swift and sudden obsession. He’d start with that small, delicate cup of skin supported by bone and sinew right there under her ear.

And:

It was fast, the kiss. Zero to sixty in no time. They went from lips, to careful breaths, to teeth and tongues and a deep, sawing need. A breaking pulse that hammered between them.

Want. Want. Want.

More and yes and there and now.

So … if you want, want, want more, yes, here and now, you can comment below before Thursday, November 21 at 11:59 p.m. PST to enter to win an eBook copy of Wild Child. I’ll draw and contact one random winner on Friday (okay, not right now, but there is more crazy insane beautiful horniness in the winner’s future, I promise).

 

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Tuesday Tidbit: A Chance of Rain Giveaway

Serena Bell

November 12, 2013

This contest is now closed—thank you, commenters. Justine is the winner! I’ll email her directly about claiming A Chance of Rain.

A little more than a year ago, I moved from the Boston area to the Seattle area. When I told people I was moving, they inevitably said, “You know, it rains a lot there.”

I already hachance of raind some trepidation about moving so far from my family, and I’ve always hated rain. On paper, I was a very poor candidate to move to a climate known best for its sogginess. In the Boston area, I didn’t even like to leave the house when it rained. I hated how you’d arrive wet and soggy with a dripping umbrella and have no place to put it. When it rained, I chose to stay inside.

Now I live here. I know every year is different, and I know I can’t draw any conclusions from the one winter I’ve experienced, but here’s what I have to say so far: It may sometimes seem like it rains a lot here, but not all rain is created equal.

First of all, it’s statistically not really true that it rains a lot. I won’t go into all the technical details because Cliff Mass, weather-dude extraordinaire, has already said it all here. The gist is that we don’t actually have all that high an average rainfall, or all that high a probability of rain at any given moment. What we do have is a lot of wet weather.

The thing I’m confused by is why Seattle natives don’t have more words for rain, the way Eskimos have so many words for snow. In November, it rains hard, rainstorms, with lots of wind, and that’s like the rain I knew in Boston. It’s no fun. It makes me want to stay inside.

But the rest of the time when it rains, it doesn’t do it with a lot of intensity. It mists. Or sprinkles. Or fogs. Or drops. Or drips. (And I’m telling you, we need more words for all the other kinds of wetness it does.) And I don’t mind it — not at all. The gray makes it easy to stay inside and write, but if I feel like going outside, there’s nothing to stop me. The damp breeze is refreshing, the mist on my skin soothing. The sky is way more than fifty shades of gray, and the clouds move fast, so the world is always changing.

Plus, moving here finally prompted me to buy the right kind of rain gear — a truly waterproof shell, a baseball cap and rubber zebra rain boots. I even have a longer rain jacket, so I don’t have to wear my short hot pink one over tunics and dresses. Having the right gear means I don’t have to mess around with a dripping umbrella, and makes me so much happier to be out and about.

I’m starting to think it’s true, what they say, that Seattle-ites made up the rain story to keep non-natives out. I mean, how much less scary would it be tell people, “It grays all the time there?”

There would be an instant deluge of avid readers and writers moving to the Seattle area and setting up shop.

Talk to me about rain, or any other kind of weather you love or hate, in the comments before Thursday, November 14, 11:59 p.m. PST, and be entered to win a copy of Amber Lin’s wonderful new short novel (48K words), Chance of Rain. Winner will be drawn and notified on Friday, November 15.

The only things Natalie Bouchard wants to change are the weekly specials in her Gram’s diner. So when her high school sweetheart strolls back into Dearling, Texas, she allows herself to indulge in a little flirtation, but that’s as far as it goes.

 Navy SEAL Sawyer Nolan has returned to sell his father’s land and get the hell out, no matter how enticing he still finds Natalie. Until a storm rolls over the Texas hills, stranding them together at the farm…and the memories of their steamy past lead to a reunion filled with hot days and long nights.

 Soon Natalie’s so far under Sawyer’s skin he can’t imagine being without her. But he has a lot of history in Dearling he’d like to leave behind, and Natalie is practically married to this town. If Sawyer wants to be more than just another person who leaves Natalie, he’ll have to give his hometown—and himself—one more chance.

 

 

 

 

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Yours to Keep is Out!

Serena Bell

November 11, 2013

My first novel, Yours to Keep, is out today.

This book is extremely important to me — it’s a story I desperately wanted to tell, about a slow and wary and tender love with a lot working against it — and even more going for it. I love Ana and Ethan, and I’m so happy to be able to share them you today.

But first, I have a lot of people to thank.

Thirty-four years ago, my mother gave me my first college-ruled notebook and encouraged me to write stories. My dad has always been equally supportive, and bought one of the first copies of Yours to Keep today. Thank you, Mom and Dad.

Three years ago, my high school friend who’d just published a book told me that the key was to write 1,000 words a day. He was right. Thank you, Brad.

My local friend encouraged me to read romance and confided in me that she was writing a romance novel. She became my first critique partner. Thank you, Ellen.

My husband and two children have been been incredibly supportive of my writing. They tease me gently, saying that I have gone off to “fiction land,” when I become vague, forgetful, or even unresponsive, but they are all openly proud of me, and eagerly await news of sales and other triumphs. My husband reads everything I write, celebrates and defends me at cocktail parties when necessary, and is a great critic. Hugs and kisses, Bells.

I have wonderful and supportive friends — from non-writer friends who’ve been willing to read and copyedit and listen and sympathize — even when they have no idea what I’m talking about — to writer friends who have peeled me off the pavement, the ceiling, walls, and any other available surface, fed me chocolate, taken me for walks, read shitty first drafts, let me fill their DM columns, phone text queues, email inboxes, and ears with neurosis, and generally been totally indispensable. Chocolate back atcha.

I have a terrific agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, at Prospect Agency, and a wonderful editor, Sue Grimshaw at Random House’s Loveswept imprint, both of whom believed deeply in this book. The team at Loveswept, acquisitions, copy editors, production editors marketing, and promo, has worked tirelessly to make sure this book is the best it can be and reaches the most people it can.

I have deep appreciation for the many amazing authors — women I admire so much — who advance-read and blurbed this book, and to all my author friends who have helped promote and spread the word about it. And of course a huge thank you to all the readers who have already bought the book, and all the reviewers who have sought it out and said such thoughtful things about it. I couldn’t do this without any of you, and I am deeply grateful.

Ruthie Knox, whose DM column I abuse most, is hosting a giveaway on her Facebook page. If you like my Facebook page and comment on her post by clicking here (not by commenting below) before midnight CT on Wednesday, you can enter win one of 10 NetGalley advance copies of Yours to Keep.

YYTK coverours to Keep

A Loveswept Contemporary Romance

The captivating story of a woman living on the edge—and the man who’s destined to love her.

Ana Travares has been looking over her shoulder her whole life. Her U.S. visa expired when she was a young girl, and if her secret is discovered, she’ll be forced to return to the Dominican Republic.

Ana allowed herself to get close to someone once before—and after he broke her heart, she swore never to make the same mistake again. But when a handsome doctor asks for her assistance, she fantasizes about breaking all her rules.

Even though pediatrician Ethan Hansen is a natural when it comes to little kids, as the single father of a teenage son he just can’t seem to get it right . . . except for the Spanish tutor he’s hired for his son, Theo. Ana has managed to crack Theo’s shell—and he isn’t the only one taken with her. The sexy tutor has fired up Ethan with a potent mix of lust and protectiveness.

But as he starts to envision a future with Ana, Ethan is devastated to learn the truth about her citizenship. Somehow he’s got to find a way to help her—and hold on to the woman he’s falling hopelessly in love with.

Advance praise for Yours to Keep

“I adore Yours to Keep. It’s sexy and incredibly smart, with a unique, compelling plot and a hero and heroine I love. I was blown away by the authenticity of the emotion and how real the characters felt, especially when combined with great drama and delicious romance. I was completely wrapped up in this story!”—New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Noelle Adams

“My heart swelled, ached, and rejoiced for the vibrant characters of Yours to Keep, an impeccably written and realistic romance that has earned Serena Bell’s work a spot on my auto-buy list.”—New York Times bestselling author Gina L. Maxwell

“Sexy, emotionally rich, and heartbreakingly lovely.”—Ruthie Knox, USA Today bestselling author of Roman Holiday

“Serena Bell weaves a sultry, satisfying romance into a heartbreakingly authentic story.”—USA Today bestselling author Megan Mulry

“Serena Bell writes romance about real people with real problems. Yours to Keep is timely, sexy, and very, very good. Highly recommended.”—Molly O’Keefe, bestselling author of Wild Child

“Serena Bell delivers a fully adult romance with authentic characters, genuine stakes, and the kind of sweet, hot yearning that turns pages and stops your breath.”—Mary Ann Rivers, author of Live

“Sweet, drama filled . . . a nail biter [with] swoons galore . . . steamy hot . . . a make-you-tear-up-and-smile book.”—The Book Hammock

Excerpt from Yours to Keep

Copyright © 2013 Serena Bell
All rights reserved — Loveswept Contemporary Romance

Chapter 1

Ana Travares had let down her guard. She’d stopped hearing her brother’s voice in her head, warning her not to say too much. Telling her not to make friends too easily. Reminding her that she—that they—didn’t have the luxury of trusting other people. Ever.

At some point, she’d let her shoulders drop from their usual spot around her ears and started to believe that maybe, just maybe, nothing too terrible would happen, as long as she kept her nose clean and didn’t break any rules.

She’d enjoyed living like a normal person. She’d lost that sense of peering around the next corner, anticipating the next challenge. And it had been a relief, like taking full breaths for the first time after wearing a too-tight dress.

Only now she thought it might not have been worth it, because the adrenaline of sudden danger packed such a vicious punch: nausea, trembling hands, tight throat. She spoke nearly flawless English, but authority figures could make her forget every word.

All Ed Branch, the high school’s new academic support specialist, had said was, “We have a new lawyer,” but that had been enough to make her sick.

“The new lawyer’s a dot-the-I’s and cross-the-T’s type,” Ed said. He sat behind his tidy desk, tipping his chair back. “Wants a CORI from everyone who breathes near the high school. You know what a CORI is, right?” He raised his eyebrows. “Criminal Offender Record Information. It’s a criminal background check.”

She nodded, shifting in the hard seat he’d offered her. Her anxiety felt visible.

“Next thing, he’ll be asking people who drive through the school zone to do background checks, too. Can you see it? Stopping drivers at the crosswalk, handing pens and CORIs through the window?” He laughed. “The point is, we’re not singling you out. Everyone who has anything to do with kids has to complete one. You have to, if you want to stay on the Recommended Tutors list.”

That list was her lifeline to work in Beacon. She got half her income from tutoring, and nearly all her tutoring clients through the school. Beacon wasn’t the only town with students who needed tutoring, but it was one of the few towns left in Massachusetts that still had a vibrant foreign language program, one of the few towns where most parents had enough money and time to hire tutors, and the only town of that sort she could get to without a car. She needed Ed’s referrals.

“You have to do a criminal background check just to keep my name on that list?”

“Yep. Crazy, if you ask me. We’re going to spend more time chasing people down to get these things—”

Ed bent his head, and she watched him ransack a file drawer. He slid a sheet of paper over the walnut desk. “I’ll need to see some form of government issued ID, too.”

It didn’t look like much, that piece of paper. It had the high school’s letterhead on it and a series of blank lines, but those lines demanded information that she couldn’t provide. Name—she could do that. Address—yes, she had one of those. Last three addresses—she could dredge those up, with some difficulty, because although they’d moved frequently, they’d stayed in Hawthorne, a small city just outside of Boston’s magnetic field. But social security number?

This would be so easy for most people. Whip out a driver’s license. Jot down an SSN. Smile, move on.

Not easy for her. Not at all.

Sometimes she wished like hell that her brother hadn’t been so careful with her, that he’d let her fake her way, as many undocumented immigrants did. Then she could calmly reach for that piece of paper and write someone else’s social security number on it.

“Is there a problem, sweetheart?”

Her mind raced. If she could stall the process, maybe Ed would forget. Or the forms would get lost. “Do you need it now?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? It’ll just take a minute.”

None of this would be happening if Ed’s predecessor were still in charge of coordinating the school’s tutoring programs. Louisa Grieg had been an easy-to-please, befuddled old biddy. Ana desperately missed her now.

Leave, a voice in Ana’s head shouted. Just get up and leave.

She made herself think of her niece and nephews. Her tutoring money paid for groceries, for milk and cereal, for school supplies, for clothes. There was no margin of error in her household, no room for screwups.

Idiota, she scolded herself.

Her brother had been right. No matter how careful you were, no matter how cautious, there were surprises. Traps.

A string of traps, led from their arrival in the U.S. twenty years ago, when Ana was seven, to this moment. Ana’s mother had never been a meticulous woman, and her exodus to the U.S. had broken her. She’d left behind home and beloved sister in the Dominican Republic, only to discover that her husband, who’d promised to follow her to the U.S., had reneged on his word.

Then Ana’s mother had gotten stomach cancer. Bedridden, she’d forgotten about, or ignored, her children’s visas. After her death, her kids had discovered the truth and, terrified, had hidden until hiding became a necessity.

Now there were no more choices. There was only Ana’s reality: Live here, in the shadows, or be deported to a country that was as foreign to her, as devoid of the things she loved, as rural China.

She was hyperconscious of the sealed door to Ed Branch’s tiny, airless office. Of the narrowness of her own breathing passages, the tightness of her chest.

“Do you need a pen?” He fished one from the can on the desk and handed it to her.

She drew the deepest breath she could. “If I’m not on the Recommended Tutors list, can you still refer people to me?”

“I’m afraid not.” He gave her a sorrowful smile that had more in common with a smirk. “We can’t put our stamp of approval on anyone who hasn’t met our requirements.”

Was he suggesting he’d cut her off from her current clients, as well?

“Ana, honey—”

That was worse, somehow, than “sweetheart.”

“—All I’m asking you to do is give me your previous addresses and social security number, and show me some ID.” There was a sour sound in his voice now, an emphasis on the phrase “social security number.”

He had somehow guessed the truth about her. Of course he knew she was Latina—her name proclaimed it, and she’d been told until she was sick of hearing it that she looked like this or that Latina actress, only “skinnier” or “with lighter skin” or “with straighter hair”—but she didn’t fit most people’s stereotypes of an undocumented immigrant. Because she’d moved here so young and started school in kindergarten, she’d learned English in a matter of weeks and was as culturally American as any of her classmates. But his manner—unctuous and sneering—told her she hadn’t fooled him. He knew.

She closed her eyes, shutting out his disdain and the bare, cinder-block walls. The office smelled like ozone and indoor-outdoor carpeting. “I’m sorry.” She put down the pen and stood up. “I don’t have ID with me today.”

“Ana. I can help.”

His tone had a new note, low and deliberate, oozy and sexual.

And here they were. Where Ed had been leading her all along.

He got up and came around to her side of the desk. She stepped back, involuntarily. She could see the gray whiskers he’d missed when shaving, the flecks of chapped skin on his lower lip. He smelled like fabric softener, his breath like maple syrup.

“Let me help,” he murmured. He reached out and, before she could move, stroked her long, jet-black hair back from her face.

She shuddered. “No.” Men like Ed Branch were the reason she tied her hair back in a ponytail, avoided makeup, and dressed in baggy clothes most of the time. Because the only thing worse than living in the shadows was when something low and dirty crept in there with you and made itself at home.

“We can work this out. This CORI problem. I’m on your side.”

She tried to draw away, but he’d woven his fingers into her ponytail. Behind his John Lennon glasses, his eyes were gray, too. The urge to yank her head away was overwhelming. “There’s no problem,” she said.

Fear had made her accent stronger, and distaste flickered in his face. “Ana,” he coaxed. The greasy sound of his voice, the too-sweet scent of him, made her dizzy. “You can tell me. Tell me the truth. What’s wrong? Why don’t you want to fill out the form?”

Because I’ve never been a fan of signing my own death warrants. She reached up and removed her hair from his grasp. Took a deep breath. “I can fill out the form just fine. I just have to look up the old addresses. I’ll take it with me. When do you need it by?”

His mouth formed a hard line. “I know you’re illegal.”

Behind her burst of fear, she felt a sliver of satisfaction. She’d made him show his hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.”

“I’ll just take this home with me and fill it out. Just tell me when you need it by.”

“Ana, honey.”

She darted past him and snatched the CORI, but he grabbed her arm and backed her towards the desk, his bony hip bumping hers. “Ana, please, baby, I can make this go away.”

Bile rose in her throat as he moved his other hand to her waist.

#

Head pounding from the din in the high school gymnasium, Ethan Hansen warily watched his son, Theo, and reminded himself that there were excellent reasons he’d volunteered to do this.

When the school nurse had asked if he’d create a helmet safety booth for Beacon High’s lunchtime health fair, he’d jumped at the opportunity. As a suburban pediatrician, he saw way too much head trauma. If he could remind even a few kids that helmets saved lives, he’d be doing some good. But the truth was, he’d had an ulterior motive, too. He was here because he wanted to show Theo that he was an active, involved father. Even if Theo had no interest in the demonstration.

Theo regarded the tagboard foldout critically. If You’ve Got a Brain in Your Head, Wear a Helmet, the slogan proclaimed.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Theo wore a beat-up Pink Floyd T-shirt and sweatpants, which Ethan had more than once told him were too casual for school. His shaggy black hair shadowed one green eye. He and Ethan shared the eye color, but nothing else physically—Theo’s fair skin and delicate features were elfin, almost ethereal, where Ethan’s features were rougher, his body brawnier, and his red-brown hair a less dramatic contrast to the green eyes.

The rest of Theo was purely his mother, and even eight years after her death, nothing had the power to reduce Ethan to black grief like catching sight of Theo’s face at an angle that suggested Trish’s.

A student darted close enough to snatch a miniature helmet keychain out of the jar on the table, but retreated before Ethan could engage him in conversation.

Theo watched him go, arms crossed. “If you’ve got a brain in your head, come up with a decent slogan.”

Ethan’s blood pressure jerked upwards. “Don’t talk to me that way.”

“I wasn’t talking to you any way. I was just making a joke about the slogan.”

People sometimes said that teenagers were like toddlers, only bigger. Ethan thought they were dead wrong. Teenagers were much cleverer and more dangerous than toddlers. They knew how to weasel out of tight semantic spaces. “Just watch your tone.”

“Why did you have to come here? It’s humiliating.”

Ethan took a deep breath. He was trapped behind this table for another half-hour, and getting into an all-out battle of the wills would be disastrous. “It could have been worse. I could be giving out condoms, like those moms.” He gestured to the three moms behind the table beside him.

Not a glimmer of humor in Theo’s scowling face. “You’re the only dad here.” An accusation.

When Ethan attended school events, he was almost always the only dad, and it was lonely. Some moms were good about including him in conversation, but many avoided him. He didn’t exactly blame them. It was an awkward thing, being the only man in a roomful of women. Conversations stopped dead when he showed up: last night’s party where they’d sold each other jewelry or bras or sex toys, discussions of hair removal strategies, mild or bitter complaints about husbandly inattentiveness. Not only was he not plagued with sagging breasts or unwanted hair, but he didn’t have a spouse to complain about. It was a double whammy, being a widower in a town of two-parent families.

“Yes. I’m the only dad here.” And I’m all you’ve got, thought Ethan, but he didn’t say it out loud. In the mood Theo was in now—a mood he seemed to be in more and more these days—he’d find some way to make it Ethan’s fault that Trish had died.

Ethan wanted to say, Theo, if it’s so humiliating that I’m here, why are you hanging around my booth? But then Theo would accuse Ethan of making him feel unwelcome—

There was no winning these days. And it was getting worse. Sometime in the last few weeks, Theo had crossed over from sullen to outright obnoxious, and Ethan was braced, waiting for genuine rebelliousness—rule-breaking, drug-taking or crime.

“Theo, is this your dad?” The voice belonged to a middle-aged, plump woman whose silver hair was pulled back in a bun. “I have some business with him.”

Generally speaking, there were two reasons women wanted to talk to Ethan: Either they wanted to ask his advice, as a pediatrician, about a medical problem, or they wanted to flirt. He was guessing, however, that this woman’s business fell into neither of those categories. She looked—angry, he’d have to say. Ferocious.

“You didn’t think it might be worth at least trying to get him a tutor?” she asked.

What?

With a father’s sixth sense—so often absent lately, but suddenly at his command—Ethan reached out and grabbed Theo’s scrawny wrist as he began to slink away.

“Hang on.” He turned to the silver-haired woman. “What’s this?”

“Kids these days,” she harrumphed. “They give up soooo easily. And it’s because their parents let them.”

“What are we talking about?” Ethan asked pleasantly. Theo was twisting in his grasp, but Ethan didn’t loosen his fingers.

“We’re talking about the fact that you allowed Theo to drop Spanish.”

“Theo dropped Spanish?”

Theo had given up the struggle. His wrist lay limply in Ethan’s hand now. Ethan eyed him. Theo looked at the floor, at the ceiling—anywhere but at his father.

“Are you his Spanish teacher?”

“His former Spanish teacher. Elsie Andalucía.”

“Ethan Hansen.” He shook her hand, Theo’s wrist still firmly gripped in his left. “He dropped Spanish?”

“You signed the form.” She crossed her arms.

“Actually, I didn’t.”

They both looked at Theo, whose face had turned red. Elsie crossed her arms. “I guess that explains why you never responded to my note suggesting you get him a tutor.”

“Theo,” growled Ethan.

With his shoulders up and his hair falling over his face, Theo gave the distinct impression of a pill bug rolling itself up to hide.

“I’m very sorry about this,” Ethan told Elsie. “Let’s start over, shall we? Can we get him back into that class?”

She smiled, and the wrinkled skin on her cheeks softened in folds. “Absolutely. I can make that happen. But he’s going to need a tutor to make up what he missed and get back on track.”

“And how do I find a tutor?”

“Best way is to go upstairs and talk to the academic support specialist, Ed Branch.”

“Excellent.” Ethan released Theo.

“Can I go back to class? I’m late.” All Theo’s bluster of earlier was absent.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Ethan said sternly.

Theo escaped, his shoulders hunched.

Ethan turned back to Elsie Andalucía. “Thank you so much for bringing this up with me.”

“You’re very welcome. I’ll get him back on that class list—and you let me know how finding a tutor goes.”

They shook hands, and she trotted off.

In the scheme of things, Theo’s forging Ethan’s signature on a class-drop form wasn’t a major crime, but it scared Ethan. He was losing Theo. It was what he’d always feared, from the moment his wife had died and left him with the care and feeding of an innocent seven-year-old. He’d hoped the fear might abate with time, as he became more accustomed to being Theo’s sole caretaker, but it had gotten worse instead, his anxiety rising as Theo grew into a full-fledged teenager. During his own high school years, it had taken all the efforts of both his parents to keep his teenage hijinks from having permanent consequences. There were no checks and balances in single parenting. If he screwed up, if he let Theo slip away—

“Hey!” A petite high school girl had stuck her hand in the jar of miniature helmet key chains and come away with a handful. “One per customer!”

She tossed a scornful glance at him over her shoulder.

He gave up, looked at his watch. Seventeen more minutes, officially, until his shift was over. But it wasn’t like he was contributing anything. He leaned over to the wholesome blond mom at the condom booth. “May I ask you a favor?”

She gave him a flirty smile. “Sure,” she cooed.

“I have to run an errand and head back to work. Can you keep an eye on this booth, too? It’s not—high demand.”

She looked disappointed, but she nodded. What had she expected, that he’d ask her if she wanted to help him make use of the jar of condoms? He knew perfectly well she was married. Most of the women in Beacon were married. Which didn’t stop them from flirting; it only stopped him from flirting back.

The non-flirting on his part wasn’t sexual deadness, not by any stretch. He could appreciate the glories of Beacon’s stay-at-home moms just fine from a visual perspective—expensively colored and straightened hair, subtly applied makeup, bodies finely tuned through obsessive, boredom-induced exercise. But he was careful. Careful, above all, not to flirt with married women, but also careful not to dally even with the few single women in town. Beacon was small, talk was loose—especially about financially well-off available men—and Theo had to go on living here no matter what his father did.

But man, he was human and male and he missed what he’d had with Trish, missed their lively, near-daily lovemaking, the connection of being with someone at a level that went beyond Tab A, Slot B. His hand was ready, willing, and able but a damn poor conversationalist.

After Trish died, there had been no one for a very long time, only paralyzing grief and the unending demands of single fatherhood. When he’d emerged from the most intense period of that, he’d begun dating again, but though he’d engaged in one or two sessions of frustration-busting, almost antiseptic, sex, there’d been nothing that had felt meaningful or lasted long enough to justify bringing a woman home to meet Theo. Because there was no way he was going to let Theo get to know, get to love, another woman who might leave. One lesson in grief was enough for a child.

Especially a troubled teenager. The last thing Theo needed in his life right now was complications. Uncertainty. His father becoming even marginally less emotionally available.

What Theo needed was—

God, he wished he knew.

He fled the cafeteria, a man on a mission. He’d go upstairs, find Ed Branch, and get his juvenile-delinquent, signature-forging son a Spanish tutor.

Chapter 2

Ana had had enough. “Get your hands off me,” she told Ed.

“We can have an informal arrangement.” His fingertips slid to her ribs.

“Stop it!” A shout this time.

The door behind her flew open, and she took advantage of the distraction to remove herself from his pawing.

“Is there a problem?” a deep voice inquired.

A man stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. He was tall—at least six feet—and ruggedly handsome, with rumpled red-brown hair and decisive lines to his face. His broad shoulders nearly filled the door frame. He looked pissed.

“Don’t you knock?” Ed demanded.

The man’s green eyes narrowed. “Not when I hear a woman yelling ‘Get your hands off me,’ and ‘Stop it.’” His voice was so mild that he might have been discussing the weather.

Ed shrugged. “Thick door. Easy to think you heard something you didn’t.”

Ana filled her lungs for the first time in several minutes. Her heart beat hard against her ribs.

“Excuse me.” She picked up her backpack and tried to slip out the door, but the man hadn’t moved, and she stopped short of body-checking him. He smelled like hand soap and something cleanly musky she could identify only as big, sexy guy.

“Can I help?” he murmured.

Grateful tears pricked her eyes, but she shook her head. Her face was level with the topmost closed button of his olive-green Oxford dress shirt, and she had to drop her gaze to his shoes—two-tone Keds with brown suede fronts. “Just let me out.”

For a moment, she was afraid he wouldn’t comply, that he’d try to make a big deal of what he’d heard, but then he stepped aside, and she took off at a brisk walk.

She was halfway down the school’s broad central staircase when she heard footfalls behind her.

“Hey,” her rescuer called. “Wait up.”

She was tempted to pretend she didn’t hear him, but instead she slowed. She was shaking all over, the aftereffects of adrenaline.

He caught up with her as she reached the wide, sunny lobby at the bottom of the staircase. It was quiet there, the students in class or at lunch.

“Are you okay?” There was genuine concern in his eyes.

“Yeah.” She absorbed details she’d been unable to process earlier: long-lashes, killer cheekbones. Clean-shaven, well-groomed, neatly dressed. His hair was soft and wavy, but still precisely edged.

She’d sworn off yanquis. So any attraction she was feeling now was only because he’d rescued her. Because she wasn’t quite in her right mind. She could still taste the coppery edge of fear.

“If you want to report him, I’ll vouch for your side of the story.”

“No.” She could manage Ed, but if other people got involved, they might start asking their own questions about her status.

“Are you sure? That was sexual harassment, what he was doing to you. It’s illegal. He might be doing it to other people.”

She didn’t need this, didn’t want it. “I think it’s particular to me,” she said dryly. “I’ll just stay away from him.” Heem. Her fear-induced accent was still in force.

“Can you do that?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah. I can avoid him.” That was more like it, a solidly Anglo him.

She suspected Ed wasn’t in a hurry to rat her out, because that would shut down the possibility that he could coerce her into sex. He’d probably wait a while, try to get her back into his office. So she’d avoid him as long as she could, and meanwhile she’d start looking for other tutoring jobs. Preferably ones unconnected to her current network of referrals.

“Is he your boss?”

She wanted him to stop asking questions and let her go. She thought of her brother, Ricky, coaching her as a kid to walk away from people who were too curious. But she couldn’t bring herself to be outright rude. This guy had rescued her. “I’m a tutor. He does the tutoring referrals. So he gives me work, but he’s not in charge of me.”

“Well, that’s something. And if you have to go in there? Keep the door open.”

She laughed without humor. “Yeah, got that. Hey. Thank you. Thanks for rescuing me. Not everyone would’ve done that. Opened the door like that.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Naw. Anyone halfway decent would have.”

She knew plenty of decent people who wouldn’t have. In her world, sometimes it was almost impossible to do the right thing without setting yourself up as a sacrifice.

“Well. Thanks again. I’d better be on my way.” She started toward the door.

He dashed ahead of her to push it open.

When was the last time anyone had held a door for her? She couldn’t remember.

He followed her out, and they stood together on the wide concrete curb in front of the school. It was the middle of the day, so there were no buses or cars, and only the occasional student coming and going. The sun shone strongly from a bright blue, late September sky with a few wisps of cumulus clouds. She could smell turning leaves and the faint cinnamon note that fall air held. After the claustrophobia of Ed’s office, it was a profound relief.

“So—crazy question.” He had a nice voice, too, low and rumbly. “You wouldn’t happen to be a Spanish tutor, would you?”

Oh, hell.

“Because my son needs a Spanish tutor.”

Was he serious? She checked him out for signs that he was propositioning her, but his face was earnest.

She needed the work. Always needed the work, and needed it worse now, if Ed decided to blacklist her. But there were a million reasons she shouldn’t work for this guy. He might cling to the idea that she should report what had happened with Ed to some authority figure. Or he might get curious about what had gone on behind the closed door and start asking questions. She could easily imagine him putting two and two together, especially when she asked him to pay her cash. Or he could decide that if Ed could take a shot at her, so could he. She didn’t want to believe this last thing about him, but she knew better than to assume that because a man was physically beautiful, he was also a saint.

“Mr. Branch can help you find a Spanish tutor,” she said finally.

He made a face. “Don’t make me go back in there.”

She couldn’t help herself; she laughed. The last of her shakiness dissolved.

“He’s really disgusting.”

“Totally vile,” she agreed.

The bell buzzed inside the high school, and from a few open windows came the sounds of chairs scraping and students chattering. He shifted from one foot to the other, and a scowl twisted his features. “My son is giving me hell. He forged my signature on a form and dropped Spanish. And I didn’t know anything about it until the teacher started grilling me this morning about why I’d ignored her note suggesting I get him a tutor.” He kicked an uneven spot in the sidewalk and didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“Ouch.”

His gaze came up, green eyes bright, and he smiled ruefully. “Yeah. So I need a competent tutor, and I’m guessing you need work, if you were in there talking to Mr. Hands.”

She giggled. She couldn’t help it. Mr. Hands. Perfect.

“I’m Ethan Hansen, by the way.” He extended his hand.

Her life didn’t provide chances to shake hands with men, or for any casual touch outside her family. So it shouldn’t have surprised her that his hand felt startlingly good around hers, warm and strong, his palm slightly rough. Her breath went somewhere and was temporarily unavailable to her. “Ana Travares,” she said, when she could.

“I’m assuming you’re competent? Let’s see. Are you on the Recommended Tutors list?” He unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket and scanned it. “You are.”

“Where’d you get that?” she demanded.

“There were a bunch of them in a pocket outside that madman’s door.” He held it out. Her name was indeed on it. “If you’re on the list, you can’t be all bad, right?”

She wanted to clutch the list like a talisman. She was on it for the time being, until Ed got around to making a new list. Which he could be doing at this very moment. And Ethan Hansen had just vividly illustrated how valuable it was to be on it. In tutoring, there were no certifications or licenses. Even college and teaching degrees weren’t essential. All that mattered was how well you convinced the world that you possessed, in abundance, the required skill.

“Okay,” she said. Or someone said it; she wasn’t actually conscious of having made a decision to accept the job offer. If her id had its own greedy little voice, that would have been it speaking: yes to a job, yes to money, yes to extra security against Ed Branch’s whims.

“Thanks.” The deep smile lines at the sides of his mouth got a thorough workout for the first time. “That’s great. How’s Monday?”

“Sure. Five o’clock?”

“That sounds good. He’s home alone after school. Do you mind if I’m not there when you get there? I’ll be home before six, in time to pay you.”

“You and your wife both work?”

“My wife died when Theo was seven.” Ethan said it matter-of-factly.

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.”

That could not have been relief she’d felt when he’d said his wife was dead. It must have been a stab of sympathy. She wasn’t interested in him. Couldn’t be interested in him. Not only because he was probably married, definitely white, and undoubtedly rich and highly educated. But also because she didn’t date anyone.

She’d given up. The men from her neighborhood, the ones who could handle the news that she was undocumented, found her strange—too brainy, too American, too self-sufficient for their tastes. And as for men she met on her own, outside the confines of her family’s approval… Well, there were only two ways they ever responded to finding out that she was living in the U.S. illegally—the way Ed had, by taking advantage of her, or by running for the hills. As Walt had. She felt a stab of pain at the memory of how things had played out with Walt.

Ethan coughed. “Yeah, so, about Monday. I work until late. Theo’s home alone. But if it’s not a problem for you, then Monday should work.”

“That’s fine.”

“Do you have something I could write my address on?”

She fished for a pen in her backpack. He wrote his address and handed them back to her.

“Um, see you Monday, then?”

They shook on it, and this time she steeled herself, so she felt only a shiver of pleasure at the rough touch of his palm.

“See you Monday.” He released her hand.

As she went up the hill toward the train station, she tried hard not to think about whether he was watching her walk away, or whether he was looking forward to Monday, or whether he’d been similarly affected by that very small, theoretically innocent, skin-to-skin contact.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Uncategorized 7 comments

Tuesday Tidbit: Thank You, Veterans!

Serena Bell

November 5, 2013

This contest is now closed; Denise C is the winner! Denise, I’ll email you!

Next Monday is Veterans Day. I have a different perspective on this holiday this year than I’ve ever had before. I’ve always appreciated the men and women who fight for this country, but recently, something has sharpened my thankfulness.

I’ve been working on my next novel, Hold On Tight, which will come out next June. Hold On Tight has a soldier hero, so I’ve been doing a lot of research, writing, and thinking, about what it’s like to be badly injured in the service of this country. Writing about Jake—who has lost his leg above the knee and—at the same time, his sense of direction and purpose—has made me think hard about the sacrifices servicepeople make for us.

Some of those sacrifices are the obvious ones—living in the shadow of death or debilitating injury, the possibility of coming home damaged physically or mentally, the wear and tear on mind and body of fighting in terrible, uncertain, and, often, confused, circumstances. But there are subtler costs, too. The men and women of the armed forces often have to choose, sometimes on a regular basis, between doing what they believe is right, fighting for their convictions—and taking care of the people they love, back home. Often they can do both, but not always, and never easily.

I must at some level have known all that was true before I spent time in Jake’s head, but now I really feel it, much more personally. So this tidbit is a thank you to every single man and woman who has served this country in the armed forces and helped to keep us safe and free. You have my gratitude, today, next Monday, and every day.

Do you have a specific serviceperson in your life, or gone too early from it, who you’ll celebrate on Monday? What makes you proudest of him/her? Or tell me about an event that changed your perspective to make you more appreciative of our armed forces.

Image of Jessica ScottI’ll give away a copy of any Jessica Scott book (winner’s choice) to a randomly selected commenter. The contest will close at 11:59 p.m. on Thursday, November 7, and I’ll draw the winner on Friday. If you’re not familiar with Jessica, she’s a soldier/writer/mom (to name just a few of her roles) and all-around an amazing woman. Her “Coming Home” Christmas novella, I’ll Be Home for Christmas, releases today. You can find out more about her bio and books by clicking here.

 

Tuesday Tidbit 6 comments

Tuesday Tidbit: Halloween Giveaway

Serena Bell

October 29, 2013

This contest is now closed, but look for another giveaway as part of next week’s Tuesday Tidbit! Chris G is the winner of this giveaway; I’ll contact her directly about her prize.

I’m no domestic goddess. My husband does most of the grocery shopping and about three-quarters of the cooking. My house is clean enough not to be terrifying, but no cleaner. I’m mostly indifferent to the state of my gardens and yard, and I’ve never been the kind of mother who sets up complex craft projects for my children on a regular basis. But there’s one time of year that brings out the small buried bit of Martha Stewart in me, and that’s Halloween. When it comes to costumes for my kids, suddenly, I am in full gear.

photoThis year, my seven-year-old is a light switch, and my ten-year-old is a kindergartner’s art easel. I made both costumes from scratch — the light switch is a piece of foam board with a small box — the switch — that swivels on a dowel inside a cutout. He’ll carry a lantern he can click on and off if anybody flips his switch. The easel is two pieces of foam board, one with painted paper clipped to it, the other black, with chalk drawings. There’s a small tray with cans of paint (empty veg cans with the tops painted to look like there’s paint inside) and brushes.

In past years, my kids have been: a rainbow, a blueberry, a paperclip, a pencil, a bat — the flying kind, not the hitting kind — all constructed at home. My lightswitchhusband and I have noted that my ability to transform my children into household objects is probably related to my ability to win Pictionary — I can’t draw worth a darn, but I have a special gift for capturing the essence of things in ridiculously simple line drawings — and apparently, for turning kids into stuff.

squirrelWhat’s the best Halloween costume you’ve ever worn or made for your kids? What’s the best costume you’ve ever seen anyone wearing?

Comment below, and enter to win a copy of Heating Up the Holidays, a sexy e-book bundle with Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s stories by USA Today and New York Times bestseller Lisa Renee Jones, the talented and popular Mary Ann Rivers, and me. I’ll randomly draw one winner on Friday morning, November 1.

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