Joely Sue Burkhart

I’ve been so wrapped up in my Brava contest entry, that I missed Amy’s first release!  For more details about Amy and Red’s new releases at Ellora’s Cave, check out this entry.  Off to pick up my copies…

Oh, speaking of releases, I also picked up Jenna Petersen’s Seduction is Forever, the third Lady Spy book!  So watch for the contest this week if you’d like to win a copy…

Thank you so much to everyone who’s already read Letters to An English Professor and made recommendations!  I’ve narrowed it to two excerpts.  One you’ve seen on the blog from Friday Snippets; one is much deeper into the story in chapter 3.  Please vote on your preference.  Which one provides the most hook?  The most bang for 750 words? The only real guidance provided for the contest is a theme of “reunited lovers.”

Excerpt 1

“Looks good, Miss Belle. I don’t think you’ll have any leaking problems into your basement for years yet. I–”

“Why didn’t you call me?” A male voice interrupted. “I want to meet your contractor before you sign anything.”

Rae’s heart slammed against her ribs. That twisty knotted feeling in the pit of her stomach roared to life and every instinct screamed a warning. She froze, glad she was mostly under the porch. Except for her lower body. Shit, shit, shit. On her knees, ass in the air, dirt in her hair… And that voice…

She’d dreamed of that voice for years. The man who went with that voice had destroyed her in more ways than one. But she couldn’t forget him. She’d never forget.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Verrill. I can take care of myself.”

Relief washed over her and she let her forehead rest against her forearm a minute. She didn’t know any Verrill. Deep breaths, calm, no reason to be upset. He couldn’t possibly be–

“If you call me that, then I get to call you Grandma.”

“Oh, Conn,” Miss Belle growled and laughed. Rae heard the slap on his arm. “I want you to meet someone.”

Conn.

Not him, please God. Anybody but him.

She couldn’t breathe. Five years might have passed, but he still possessed the ability to reduce her to a twenty-one-year-old English student again, drooling over her sexy professor. Only he knew what had happened behind his closed office door the last day of the semester. Only she knew the memory still haunted her dreams.

Maybe the fantastic old house would suddenly break apart and bury her in rubble.

He gave a low whistle. “Hello, gorgeous.”

Her brain skittered with panic, her sudden intake of breath echoing beneath the porch. Great, just great. He was staring at her ass. Heat flared beneath her jeans as if he’d smacked her. Again.

Insanely, she wanted to giggle and burst into tears at the same time. At least she wasn’t wearing that fateful white mini-skirt he’d hated so much.

Maybe he won’t remember me.

Her heart clenched in agony.

“The Fix-It Lady has accepted my offer. Rae Lynn, come on out and meet my grandson.”

“Rae?”

The sudden intensity of his voice rocked her with panic. She scrambled deeper beneath the porch. He caught her foot, his powerful hands shackling her leg. She kicked back with her other foot, catching him solidly with her boot. Hopefully in the head.

He grunted but didn’t let go. Weight trapped her lower body, his arms snaking around her legs, hauling her back. She grabbed at the footing, missed, dug in the soft soil for a root, anything to slow him.

Miss Belle shrieked. If she’d carried a parasol, the old lady would be beating him over the head with it. “What are you doing? Let go of her this minute, Verrill Connagher! Don’t you know how to treat a lady?”

Grappled inch by inch backwards into the open, Rae wanted to die. If the old lady knew what had happened the last time her grandson got his hands on her…

He flipped her over, his hands locked on her waist. One more tug and–

“Rae!”

Blinded by the afternoon sun, she swung her fist at his head, grateful she couldn’t see. She didn’t want to see the face she’d daydreamed about all these years. Those incredible baby blues, changing with his mood from steel gray to brilliant sapphire. One look from those eyes and she’d be lost all over again.

Her heart pounded, her skull split open, her mouth as dry as an old bone, she bucked and fought. She had to get away. Before it was too late.

Don’t touch him. Don’t melt into his arms and burst into tears and wail that I wish–

Pinning her hands on either side of her head, he leaned down over her to block the sun. She squeezed her eyes shut and averted her face. Tears burned her throat, shame burned her face. She strained in vain, knowing he was too strong, always too strong, as strong as she remembered.

“Stop it,” he said gruffly, his voice tight. Anger? Or pain? Had he missed her? Why did the weight of his body against hers have to feel so damned good? “Are you hurt?”

She laughed, wincing at the ragged edge of pain and regret in her voice. “Get off me, Dr. Connagher.”

Excerpt 2

“I’m warning you, darlin’. I’ve had all this time to fantasize about the many ways I ache to make love to you. We’ve always been in danger of spontaneous combustion.”

“Just don’t hurt me,” Rae whispered, rubbing her face against his shirt.

He smelled incredible, all woodsy musk, leather, and man. Such a man. She could lose everything to him, her heart, her pride, her soul. Even knowing the risk, she couldn’t make herself run again. She’d been dreaming of him for five long years, remembering every agonizing minute in his office the last day of the semester. As soon as she’d turned in her final, her sexy English professor had turned her world upside down across his desk and given her a test she’d never forget.

Easing her off his lap to stand before him, Conn stared into her eyes, his brow creased. “I didn’t hurt you that day in my office. Did I?”

“Not really. But–“ She swallowed, fighting the urge to drop her gaze. “The potential was there. I thought you might hurt me, and I wouldn’t even care. Until later.”

“Trust me, Rae. I’m going to work every single day to prove to you that you can put yourself in my hands, in my life, and never regret it. I will not hurt you.”

“Not even if I want you to?”

No shocked horror or recrimination in his fathomless eyes. “Do you?”

His voice lowered, a hint of rumbling growl creeping in to curl her toes and send shivers down her spine. “I don’t know. I never let anyone spank me before, either.”

“Do you want me to spank you again?”

Heat flared across her cheeks, down her neck and chest to pool lower. She was suddenly very aware of his hands on her hips, the strength in his arms and body. Her pulse fluttered, her heart kicking into high gear. “If you want to.”

“That wasn’t the question, Rae. Do you want me to spank you again?”

“I– I–“ Her breathing quickened, panicky little sounds escaping her mouth, but her inner muscles tightened, too, aching with longing. Her breasts felt tight and hot, her nipples painfully stiff against the lace of her bra. While he did nothing but look at her with that heavy darkness spreading in his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Those lazy, smoldering eyes, his mouth slightly curved with a secretive smile — she wanted to crawl right back into his lap and kiss him again. “If I put my hand beneath your skirt and slipped my fingers beneath your panties, what would I find?”

Trembling, trapped by the weight of his gaze alone, she squeezed her fingers tighter on his shoulders. Holding him close, or preventing herself from fleeing? She wasn’t sure.

His will, so frighteningly intense and concentrated on her, dragged the truth from her lips no matter how embarrassing. “Wet.”

“Good, that’s the answer I was looking for.” Standing, he took her hand. “Now let’s go finish our dinner before Miss Belle sends out a search party.”

Calming her breathing, she struggled to bring her raging hormones under control. “That’s all?”

Smiling that wicked knowing grin, he winked and drew her closer. “For now.”

Braced for him to pressure her into spending her first night at Beulah Land in his bed — and the ensuing battle she’d have to wage with herself to refuse — her mind floundered. Everything she’d feared all these years suddenly seemed ridiculous.

They climbed the porch stairs in silence, but at the back door, she halted. In the shadows, she couldn’t see his face. “What are we going to tell Miss Belle?”

“You don’t have to tell me a thing, Rae Lynn,” Miss Belle’s voice echoed in the night from the upstairs balcony. “I say you’ll hold out at least two weeks.”

Did she have a straight shot down to the gazebo? Where Rae had just crawled all over her grandson? Cringing, she tried to decide whether to burst into hysterical laughter or smack Conn for dragging her outside in the first place. Why had she signed that damned contract to work for the crazy old lady?

“Colonel Healy says his grandson will have you in his bed within the week.”

Laughing so hard he sagged against the wall, Conn wrapped his arms around Rae before she punched him. “Colonel Healy’s been dead for years now, Grandma.”

“I know that, Verrill Connagher, and don’t you dare call me Grandma. The bet’s on.”

From The Long and The Short Of It Reviews, 4 books!  This part especially tickled me:

Survive My Fire will appeal to romantica readers and fans of Laurell K. Hamilton’s Merry Gentry series.

Read the whole review here.  Thank you, Daisy!

Nancy tagged me for the Middle Name Meme:

First, the rules:

1. You have to post these rules before you give the facts.
2. Players - You must list one fact that is somehow relevant to your life for each letter of your middle name. If you don’t have a middle name, use the middle name you would have liked to have had.
3. At the end of your post, you need to choose one person for each letter of your middle name to tag.

Sentimental. Little things really move me, especially when it’s something the monsters do for me.

Underdog!  My favorite cartoon as a kid.  “It’s a bird.  It’s a plane.  Nooooo, it’s a frog!”

Excellence.  I always strive for excellence in everything I do.  Which makes me a tad compulsive.

I’m going to cheat on the last part.  I don’t have a single “u” on my blogroll, and the “e” people either don’t post regularly or don’t do memes.  If anybody wants to participate, give it a shot!

I know some of you are enjoying Letters to An English Professor–and some of you aren’t, to say it mildly.   If romance is not your thing, please feel free to skip the snippet and merely leave your link! 

If you are interested in rather steamy contemporary romance, the snippet is below the cut, as well as links to previous weeks’ pieces from this story. 

I also have a huge favor to ask.  I intend to enter this story in the Brava novella contest, and would like some help selecting the best 750-word excerpt for entry.  It’s hard to pick only 3 pages!!!  (While I love the excerpt below, it’s 1125 words.)  If you’d be interested in reading the 120 or so pages I have and making a suggestion, I would be so grateful!  If you’ve read the letters, you know this story includes some elements of BDSM and harder language than I typically use.  I’m also in a time crunch.  The deadline is Sept 30th!  So if I haven’t scared you away, you have the time and the interest, please e-mail me at joely AT joelysueburkhart DOT com. 

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You Know You Have A Strong Brand When… The whole reason I went to the home office (EDJ) last week was corporate-wide brand training.  Now I’m not going to get into the specifics of my company’s brand or the training materials themselves–which are copyrighted–but I’ll talk about things I learned.  I was extremely interested in how branding applies to writing.  I’ve already attempted one TT#27 about branding Beautiful Death, but this is a wider look.   As part of the training, we had to write a PERSONAL brand about our role in the company and how we do our daily jobs.  To do so, we asked people to give three key words about their perceptions.  If you know me or read here regularly enough–and feel comfortable–I would love to get your three words about what you think of me as a writer, or my stories in general.  It will help me significantly as I define my writing brand!   1.  A brand isn’t some cute little icon or symbol. 2. A brand isn’t a slogan. 3. A brand is merely other people’s perceptions of who you are.  What you stand for. 4. You have a strong brand when YOU know and understand what OTHERS perceive about you.  5. A weak brand means you really have no idea how others perceive you. 6. A strong brand is distinctive and it stands for something you believe very strongly in. 7. A strong brand is important to other people, not just you, because they think it could make an impact on their lives. 8. A strong brand is consistent and reliable.  i.e. As a writer, I want every single one of my books to deliver on my brand.  The reader should never be disappointed, or the brand is weakened. 9. Perceptions can be tricky.  Remember the whole character building tool of coming up with the one trait that is both a greatest strength and greatest weakness?  While I might think my brand demonstrates the power of sacrifices made for love, other people might see the blood and be turned off by the violence.  10. Brands change over time to meet the market demands.  We had such an interesting discussion on how the Wal-Mart brand of “Lowest prices.  Every day” has changed recently. 11. To define a brand, you have to understand several components that affect it.  Roles–how you interact with people affects how they see you.  Standards–what do you expect to show in your work?  Style–how are you going to deliver your product? 12. Out of these components, you should be able to pinpoint ONE THING that defines you.  It’s the dominant characteristic of your company or product and drives everything else. 13.  Once you know that ONE THING, write your brand promise describing how you’ll deliver it, consistently, in a way that makes a difference in your area.

Get the Thursday Thirteen code here! The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
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As I said Monday, I turn four years old as a writer this week.  If you’re interested in previous years’ reviews, you can always check the archives–although I noticed yesterday that something went a little wonky with the import into Wordpress and some of the entries are doubled.

Two big things occurred to me last year.

So it finally dawned on me. It’s never going to get any easier. I’m never going to have more time. I whine now about having too many ideas and too little time. How much worse will it be if I ever am under contract?

and

The most important thing the past year has taught me: no doubts. I’m trusting my heart, my instincts, my path. I’m going to write hard and wildly and I’m not going to stop and worry about what anyone else might say or do. Whether anybody else will like what I’m doing or hate it. I’m bleeding Story with my heart and that’s all that matters.

What does this mean?  It means I finally found MY story.  I found the kind of story I *have* to write.  I can write that story with authority, with belief in my heart that it’s the right story for me, right now.  Instead of wavering, whining, and wandering around in the darkness, I hacked my own path out of the wilds.  Most importantly, I FINISH.  When I commit to a story, I finish it.  I think that’s one of the most important commitments a writer can make.

I also paid attention to the state of the market, New York publishing, and how that fits with what I like to write.  When I stumbled across Drollerie Press and saw mythic transformative fiction and the glorious graphics on the site, I can’t explain it.  My heart skipped a beat.  I felt a resonance deep inside.  And I knew I had to submit.  Three pieces officially accepted for publication this year!  Another under consideration.  Inspiration brimming inside me.  A brilliant editor who’s teaching me to keep my voice while fine-tuning the story to our utmost ability.  What more could I want?

Well, someday, a NY contract too and an agent would be nice.   But I’m writing what I LOVE, and I found a place that loves the same thing.  It’s a great opportunity to grow with a new house, and I’m loving every minute of it.

So this year, I learned to listen to my heart.  I committed to daily writing, 500-1000 words, even if that means getting up at 4:00 a.m. to do it.  I have an accountability partner, my beloved sister, and my dearest friend, Wanda, all whom I trust unquestioningly. In 2007, I’ve written over 194,000 words already and finished SEVEN projects.

I have a vision for where I’m going, and I’m writing stories I love to get there.

I put off writing this story for a long time (I actually started a very naive, dare I say cheesy, version three years ago).  Why?  Because it’s challenging me as a writer, which is never a comfortable place to be.  It’s pushing my boundaries, testing me, just like Conn tests Rae’s limits to see how far she’ll let him go. 

The warning on this one is for language and violence (domestic abuse).  I am not a cursing kind of person, but Rae has come to the end of her rope.  The Clive Owen picture below is how Conn would look if he ever had the pleasure of meeting Richard in a dark alley.

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Despite heading to MN for the Evil Day Job (EDJ) last week, I still managed over 5600 words last week.  Of course I had to get up at 4:00 a.m. to do so….

I also had great news that The Fire Within had been accepted at Drollerie Press!  Yay.  We still have edits to get through, but it will hopefully be out before the end of the year.

Dr. Sexy Connagher is still burning up the page in Letters.  As this week winds down, I’ll be searching for the ideal 750-word snippet to submit for the Brava contest.  The first draft itself is up to nearly 80 pages and I still have a nice chunk to do yet.  I’d love to finish by the end of the month, but we’ll see how it goes.

On a serious note, this month I celebrate my four-year-old birthday as a writer.  Yep, four whole years since I first committed to serious writing with the goal of publication.  I’ll probably reflect later this week about what this past year has meant and where I hope to go next year.

What would you like to accomplish before September turns to October?

To understand this post, this is a snippet from 9/23/2004: 

Okay, I did finally manage to make it to the post office today! So the full of MY BELOVED BARBARIAN is winging its way to New York. Just thinking about it makes me twitchy like a na’kindre tormented by flies. (ha, my favorite Sha’Kae al’Dan metaphor)

I hope I remembered everything. I hope I was cool and professional. I definitely remembered to put “Requested” on the envelope. I referred to the HODRW Molly twice in the query. I lengthened the 4-page synopsis the editor got with the contest entry just a bit, added the little Black Heart excerpt, and tweaked the ending just a little. Well, no use thinking about it now–it might take months to hear anything.

The wait begins.

Oh, grasshopper. 

My own naivety kills me. Yeah, I was only a one-year-old writer when I wrote that blog, but still.  I thought that second major rewrite of my first book was pretty darned good.  I mean, it finaled in the Molly Contest and earned a full request from the editor, right?  My Dream Editor, no less.

A year went by.  I sent an e-mail status inquiry.  No response.  Six more months went by.  I sent a snail mail status inquiry with a cheesy “Do you like me? Yes or No?” checkbox format.  The answer:  “Still under consideration.” 

I wrote another journal something like this:

What does that mean? They never read it? They’ve read it and don’t know what to do with it?  Good or bad, rejection or not, please, just end this agony! So I can move on already!!

Hope pretty much died at the two-year birthday.  I even rewrote the darned thing from scratch and renamed it.  I began entering it in contests again under the new name.  I submitted it to new places.  And sold it as BloodRose.

I guess the technically correct thing to do would be to write another snail letter and withdraw the submission since I’ve sold the story.  But the disillusioned part of me wants to wait and see how long it takes before Dream Editor responds.  If ever.

Happy Third Birthday, MBB.

My MN trip has been extended a day thanks to my flight getting cancelled tonight.  At least I found out before I got to the airport, and Wanda was kind enough to take me to a close hotel.  That has free wi-fi.  The monsters all bawled, though, which made it really hard.  Nothing I can do, but I still feel bad.  At least I packed extra underwear. 

I’m also getting a cold. 

I’ve somehow managed to waste the rest of my evening instead of writing or even reading and I don’t even know what I did other than catch up on Friday Snippets.  Which I might be bowing out of.  We’ll see.  I’m not in the right frame of mind tonight to decide.

Off to try and make up my 800 words I’m short for the day, although I have to be at the airport around 5:30 a.m. tomorrow….

This is my contemporary romance novella with some paranormal flavor

Backstory Letters
Chapter 1, Scene 1

With the flashlight gripped in her fist, Rae pushed her shoulders through the crawlspace beneath Miss Belle’s back porch.  Colonel Healy had designed the addition in honor of their daughter’s birth nearly sixty years ago.  Rae cast the light up at the floor boards. Nice solid heavy beams. They didn’t build houses like this anymore. She checked the closest footing, digging dirt away from the concrete.

“The porch and addition are in good shape, Miss Belle. Let me check the foundation real quick, but I don’t think you’ve got any problems outside the house. It’s good, real good.”

“Aren’t you afraid of spiders?” Miss Belle demanded. “It’s not natural for a young lady to be crawling around in dark spaces like that. Who knows what kind of creepy-crawlies are in there.”

In Rae’s experience, the creepy-crawlies weren’t bugs under a porch at all but real live people. “I’m fine, Miss Belle.”

She wiggled her shoulders deeper beneath the house to get a better look. The dirt was dry but rich, good smelling, not dank with mold or slime. Good stuff. But it was the foundation of the original structure that she most wanted to see.

She cast the light over the tight stones, amazed that something over one hundred years old still stood the tests of time. This old plantation house put brand new track homes to shame. “Looks good, Miss Belle. I don’t think you’ll have any leaking problems into your basement for years yet. I–”

“Why didn’t you call me?” A male voice interrupted. “I want to meet your contractor before you sign anything.”

Rae’s heart slammed against her ribs. That twisty knotted feeling in the pit of her stomach roared to life and every instinct screamed a warning. She froze, glad she was mostly under the porch. Except for her lower body. Shit, shit, shit. On her knees, ass in the air, dirt in her hair… And that voice…

She’d dreamed of that voice for years. The man who went with that voice had destroyed her in more ways than one. But she couldn’t forget him. She’d never forget.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Verrill. I can take care of myself.”

Relief washed over her and she let her forehead rest against her forearm a minute. She didn’t know any Verrill. Deep breaths, calm, no reason to be upset. He couldn’t possibly be–

“If you call me that, then I get to call you Grandma.”

“Oh, Conn,” Miss Belle growled and laughed. Rae heard the slap on his arm. “I want you to meet someone.”

Conn.

Not him, please God. Anybody but him.

She couldn’t breathe. Five years might have passed, but he still possessed the ability to reduce her to a twenty-one-year-old English student again, drooling over her sexy professor. Only he knew what had happened behind his closed office door the last day of the semester. Only she knew the memory still haunted her dreams.

Maybe the fantastic old house would suddenly break apart and bury her in rubble.

He gave a low whistle. “Hello, gorgeous.”

Her brain skittered with panic, her sudden intake of breath echoing beneath the porch. Great, just great. He was staring at her ass. Heat flared beneath her jeans as if he’d smacked her. Again.

Insanely, she wanted to giggle and burst into tears at the same time. At least she wasn’t wearing that fateful white mini-skirt he’d hated so much.

Maybe he won’t remember me.

Her heart clenched in agony.

“The Fix-It Lady has accepted my offer. Rae Lynn, come on out and meet my grandson.”

“Rae?”

The sudden intensity of his voice rocked her with panic. She scrambled deeper beneath the porch. He caught her foot, his powerful hands shackling her leg. She kicked back with her other foot, catching him solidly with her boot. Hopefully in the head.

He grunted but didn’t let go. Weight trapped her lower body, his arms snaking around her legs, hauling her back. She grabbed at the footing, missed, dug in the soft soil for a root, anything to slow him.

Miss Belle shrieked. If she’d carried a parasol, the old lady would be beating him over the head with it. “What are you doing? Let go of her this minute, Verrill Connagher! Don’t you know how to treat a lady?”

Grappled inch by inch backwards into the open, Rae wanted to die. If the old lady knew what had happened the last time her grandson got his hands on her…

He flipped her over, his hands locked on her waist. One more tug and–

“Rae!”

Blinded by the afternoon sun, she swung her fist at his head, grateful she couldn’t see. She didn’t want to see the face she’d daydreamed about all these years. Those incredible baby blues, changing with his mood from steel gray to brilliant sapphire. One look from those eyes and she’d be lost all over again.

Her heart pounded, her skull split open, her mouth as dry as an old bone, she bucked and fought. She had to get away. Before it was too late.

Don’t touch him. Don’t melt into his arms and burst into tears and wail that I wish–

Pinning her hands on either side of her head, he leaned down over her to block the sun. She squeezed her eyes shut and averted her face. Tears burned her throat, shame burned her face. She strained in vain, knowing he was too strong, always too strong, as strong as she remembered.

“Stop it,” he said gruffly, his voice tight. Anger? Or pain? Had he missed her? Why did the weight of his body against hers have to feel so damned good? “Are you hurt?”

She laughed, wincing at the ragged edge of pain and regret in her voice. “Get off me, Dr. Connagher.”

“I take it you two know each other?” Miss Belle sniffed loudly. “Honestly, Verrill, do as she says and get up. You can’t scare her off with your intimidation tactics–she’s the best contractor around!”

“Look at me,” he whispered fiercely, lowering his face within inches of her. Steel-clad velvet, his voice reached into her chest and tugged on her heart.

His panting breath was hot and moist on her cheek, the woodsy musk of his cologne achingly familiar. The heat of his body burned into hers, driving her into the ground, and she felt her muscles softening, rigid rejection to pliant, aching need. She arched against him helplessly, but not to escape. Not this time.

So weak, so miserably weak. She braced herself to bear the intensity of his gaze, the force of his will. I can tell him no. I’ve learned that much in five years.  Haven’t I?

With dread gnawing away in the pit of her stomach, she slowly turned her head, opening her eyes.

All hard angles and shadows, his face had aged, lined and worn but better for that aging. Like fine whiskey and Sean Connery, he merely got better, more distinctive and impressive over the years. His Oxford white shirt had a dirty boot print over his heart. Ironic, that.

Staring into his eyes, she felt her throat constrict with tears, her eyes filling. No, no, she wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

The chips of ice glittering in his eyes thawed at whatever he saw in her gaze, but he held her pinned beneath him. “Don’t run out on me again.”

She nodded jerkily. He knew she wouldn’t refuse him. She couldn’t. That’s why she’d run the first time.  Evidently she hadn’t learned a damned thing.

Immediately, he climbed to his feet and offered her a hand up. Belying the burning fierceness of his gaze, he said lightly, “Rae was a student of mine five years ago.”

“Oh!” Miss Belle clapped her hands, grinning ear to ear. “So you’re the one he spoke of so often. Fabulous. What a coincidence. I hope he gave you an A, Rae Lynn.”

Heat seared her face. Oh, he gave her an A all right.

Talking about coincidence… Suspicious, she glared at the innocent little old lady.

With a breezy smile, Miss Belle flounced back toward the rear of the house. “I’ll see you for dinner, dear.”

“Oh no you won’t,” Rae retorted, her stomach twisting into knots. “I’m not coming back.” Not if he’s here.

Miss Belle arched a brow at her beneath the broad brim of her big straw hat. “You gave your word, Rae Lynn. You accepted my offer, signed our contract, and I don’t tolerate fools or liars. Besides, remember your slogan.” With that, Miss Belle disappeared down the trail skipping like a little girl.

Making It Right.

Clenching her jaw, Rae shook her head. It was too late to make it right with Conn. Five years too late.

I’m simply too busy this week to do a Thursday Thirteen justice and visit everyone, so I’ll skip until next week.  I do plan on participating in Friday Snippets this week, and I’ll visit everyone over the weekend.