Thank you so much for having me over, Samantha! It’s a delight to be here. I’m thrilled that today is the release day for my May Day, my second book with Ellora’s Cave.
I really loved writing May Day because Marcy, the heroine, is a woman I can relate to. Sure, I’m not a wealthy blonde socialite, and thank goodness I’m not a widow, but she and I are the same age and we both live in the Deep South. Hers was such a natural personality to slip into—it was a pure joy writing about her experiences in first person. Marcy’s got a bit of a rocky ride and some tough life lessons to learn, but she’s also got some fabulous romance to help her get through it all.
Be sure to stop by my blog to enter in a giveaway for May Day and to take part in Ella Jade’s Birthday Blog Hop. My links are below - good luck!
*Note: May Day is an erotic romance that is intended for adults only.
Marcy’s doing her best to love her lavish Baton Rouge lifestyle. She’s even considering dating Carter, a man whose memberships, gold cards and real estate have earned her social circle’s seal of approval. He’s perfect—well, perfectly capable of maintaining her high-priced lifestyle.
Marcy’s reluctant to make the safe choice. Instead she escapes to her vacation home to get some distance. Too bad the only distance she’s able to focus on is the space that separates her from the smokin’ hot contractor in her neighbor’s yard.
Sam’s too young, too broke and way too country—Marcy can’t keep her hands off him. In the garden, on a trail ride, it doesn’t seem to matter. Sam might be wrong for a relationship, but he’s perfect for a newly widowed rebound. Marcy will get him out of her system and get on with her life. But the more time she spends in the country, the more Marcy wonders if the life she’s meant for is the one she really wants.
My cell phone rings, and my heart lurches. Is it him? I blush and bite my lip, afraid to answer, but I make myself pick it up. And of course it’s not Sam—how could he have gotten my number? It’s Tiffany. She’s got a plan. It involves a double date with Baton Rouge’s most eligible bachelor. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“Sure,” I tell her. “Why not? Tonight would be great. I can be in the city in a couple of hours. What are you going to wear?”
And just like that, it’s all arranged. It’s the smart thing for me to do. I trust Tiffany—we’ve been best friends since third grade—and I owe it to her to give this guy a shot if she thinks he’s so great. And it does make sense. Carter moves in the same circles that I do (well, a ring or two above them, to be honest) and it’s not as though this thing with Sam could really go anywhere. Carter’s everything I ought to be after, and Sam is, well. Sam just doesn’t fit in, does he? I blush again, remembering. (Damn that Sam.) Money, travel, power, prestige—Carter is all of those things that make me feel happy and secure, all the things I’ve dreamed about since I was a little girl watching Robert Palmer and Madonna videos on VH-1 with Tiffany. I wanted to be adored and envied and showered with expensive presents. I refuse to feel guilty about that—it’s nice being rich. The refrain of that old Shelia E. song, “Glamorous Life,” runs through my mental cassette deck and I smile. Hell yes to the glamorous life. Sign me up.
I drive on back to Baton Rouge and hop in the shower.
Two hours of careful primping later, I’m at a corner table at the Live Oaks Country Club, seated across from Tiffany and flanked by her husband and my date. The place is bustling, but in a serene, proper sort of way. The lights are low, the flowers are fresh, and the napkins are nicely starched. Through the windows, I can see the golfers on the driving range getting in the last swings of the evening, knocking those little white balls right into the sunset.
Tiffany looks stunning, as usual. Her artfully highlighted auburn hair is tousled just so and she’s wearing a low cut charmeuse blouse and pencil skirt. She’s perfected the style to which I aspire—expensive, well-cut clothing, tasteful accessories and an air of ease about the whole thing. I never used to pay attention to it before, really. But now, I notice.
“You look great in that moss-green color,” I compliment her. “You should wear it more.”
She seems a bit surprised. “Oh, well,” she shrugs. “Eugene gave me this for Christmas. It’s Prada.” She strokes the satiny fabric with French-manicured fingers. “I hadn’t worn it yet, so, you know, I thought I ought to.”
“Doesn’t she look lovely?” Gene guffaws. “Regular runway model, this one.” He reaches under the table to thump Tiff’s knee with one meaty palm. “Oughta be, anyway, considering the bills I pay for haircuts and clothes, right?” He winks at Carter and chuckles.
Tiffany tenses but smiles like a beauty queen. “Oh, Gene, you stop it,” she murmurs.
I feel a rush of sympathy for Gene—and where the hell did that come from? I’ve heard nothing but complaints about him from Tiffany for years. He’s overweight, balding, and ruddy-faced, and he reeks of cigarette smoke, but all in all, he’s a nice enough guy. He certainly adores Tiffany, and she does little to encourage it except be beautiful. She certainly chased him hard enough before he finally proposed (although she did it with enough expertise that he had no idea he was the prize and not her). When I married Rick, she pulled out all the stops. “I’m gonna get one, too,” she’d whispered at my bachelorette party. “Just you watch.” Gene hadn’t stood a chance. For all his money and business sense, he was a deer in the headlights when it came to the sheer power of Tiffany’s long legs, full red hair and china doll face. Tawny Kitaen, eat your heart out. Sadly for him, Gene is no David Coverdale. He’s more of an out-of-shape Phil Collins with a touch of Meatloaf.
Carter, on the other hand, is the picture of a suave metrosexual. He’s fit and has a head full of salt-and-pepper hair and a profile that belongs on a Roman coin. He moved to Baton Rouge a few months ago with a bank account so big it got everyone’s attention. Since Rick’s death, I haven’t made it to the club that often, so this is the first time he and I have crossed paths.
Carter clinks his whisky glass with Gene’s and glances over at me. Since Tiffany and I decided over the phone to go with “sexpot secretary” as our sartorial theme, I chose Mad Men’s hot secretary, Joan, as my muse. I may not have Christina Hendrick’s curves, but I know I’m rocking my peacock-blue dress. I hoisted the girls into a push-up bra so they’d fill out the deep scoop neckline and I wore my strand of peach pearls with a pink tourmaline pendant that nestles right into my cleavage. If Carter didn’t know before tonight that he was a breast man, I’m sure he knows it now.
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