Thursday Threads – My Sexy Valentine

Today on Thursday Threads we feature the wonderful Tina Susedik and the fun filled Soul Mate Valentines Day anthology, My Sexy Valentine:

(And hey, I have a story in here as well.)

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Blurb for The Valentine’s Proposal:

When a Valentine’s Day proposal doesn’t go the way she expected, librarian Janetta Simonson’s life changes in ways she’s never dreamed.

BUY LINK: My Sexy Valentine:

EXCERPT FROM The Valentine’s Proposal:

Devlin Baran followed the statuesque brunette as she stomped from the woman’s room and headed to the bar. His cock twitched as her hips swayed in tight jeans. Was the guy who dumped her crazy? To trade in this hot piece for the washed-out blonde?

He’d noticed her the moment she’d walked into the building. Full breasts. Tapered waist. Not too thin. Tall. His body had reacted immediately. He liked his women tall. He’d been ready to join her when the jerk arrived. During their argument he’d called her Janetta. The name seemed to suit her.

Pseudo cowboys irritated the hell out of him. New boots, shiny belt buckle, cheesy western shirt were all signs. But even real cowhands dressed up for a Saturday night on the town, so he could be mistaken. When the man tossed his hat brim side down on the table, Devlin knew him to be a fake. Any real westerner knew you put your hat top side down so not to ruin the folds.

Since he was out of luck with the brunette, he’d headed to the men’s room, where he observed the encounter. He nearly applauded when the woman smacked the pretend cowboy across the cheek and threw the ring into the crowd. Hell. Not only did he like them tall, he loved them spirited, like his fillies on his ranch.

As she headed to the bar, he shook his head. He couldn’t let a hot woman interfere with the job he had to do, needing all his focus to find out who was slipping drugs into women’s drinks. As a rancher working undercover as an FBI agent, he always seemed to be one-step behind the assholes who thought it fine to have sex with unconscious women.

The man, or men, moved from bar to bar in the small rural area. This was the only one that hadn’t been hit. He hoped to hit pay dirt tonight.

He tried to ignore Janetta’s shapely ass as she sat on a stool next to another pseudo cowboy. She must have a thing for their type. After taking her time with one drink, the man tipped his overly white Stetson, leaned in and said something, making her laugh. The back of Devlin’s neck prickled. He seemed familiar.

What was she thinking, Devlin wondered as she let the guy put his hand on her thigh. Even though she oozed sex appeal, after her encounter with Fred, he had the feeling she wasn’t a sexually aggressive person. She seemed more like a kindergarten teacher.

Janetta took a sip of her orange-colored drink and spoke to the man—who threw his head back and laughed. The hand went a bit further up her leg. She took another drink and swayed into him. Maybe he was wrong and she was just another floozy looking to pick up an unsuspecting cowboy.

The man swung an arm around her shoulders and lifted the glass to her lips. Her head dropped into his neck. He glanced over his shoulder and snuggled her into his side. After a few minutes he pulled her from the stool, and like a man helping a drunk companion, headed toward the door.

Shit. She’s been drugged.


ALSO BY TINA SUSEDIK:20151018 Tina Susedik

Riding for Love:


All I Want for Christmas is a Soul Mate:


Where to find Tina:



Twitter: @tinasusedik

Facebook: Tina Susedik, Author


The Recipe Box

Originally posted on Romance Writers Weekly:

To me, my mom’s recipe box is like a magic box. But rather than containing spells and potions, it holds a treasure trove of tastes from previous generations. Written on paper weathered by time and dotted with smears of chocolate or dabs of oil, it allows a wonderful trip down memory lane, or a peak into a time long since forgotten. 
I see my grandmom’s recipe for meatballs or pizzelles, and brushing a finger over her handwriting makes me feel like she’s right there with me. Or my mom’s recipe for Christmas cut-out cookies, and remember how year after year, she’d let us invade the kitchen like a bunch of deranged elves and decorate the cookies to our hearts’ content.

Tucked among the countless number of cards are recipes only eaten at special holidays, notes dashed off correcting ingredient quantities or cooking times, recipes for cleaning solution (yep, vinegar is…

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Originally posted on Romance Writers Weekly:

It’s no secret that I’m a die hard romantic. I LOVE love. I love writing about it, talking about it, reading about it. Watching it on television and movies, and watching it happen in real life in all its glorious forms.

I’ve always been like this.  My grandparents, who are from Virginia’s coal mining country, were married when my grandma was fifteen and grandpa was seventeen. He loved to tell us about how they lived next door to each other and he would irritate my grandma until she threw rocks at him.  10527680_935058676511516_3478923150679919034_n

My grandpa wasn’t a person who teased. But he adored my grandma’s temper. She’s short (shorter than me, and I’m five foot even) to his tall, but her temper is legendary. But in all my 39 years, the only person I ever heard her yell at was Grandpa. One of my favorite memories happened just a few years…

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Thursday Threads – Jesse’s Girl

Today on Thursday Threads we feature the wonderful Char Chaffin and her nostalgia romance, Jesse’s Girl:






Tim O’Malley returns to his home town of Skitter Lake, Ohio, to clear his name and get the girl: Dorothy Whitaker, the love of his life since eighth grade. Blamed for a destructive fire he didn’t set, only Tim and Dorothy know the truth; that Jesse Prescott, Tim’s best friend and Dorothy’s boyfriend, did the deed that changed an entire town. But Jesse died in that tragedy and seven years later, Skitter Lake still honors him as a hero, rather than Tim, the boy from the seedy side of town whose father was a drunk . . . and whose quick actions saved six people from perishing in that horrendous fire.


In trying to set the record straight and finally claim Dorothy as his own, Tim—and Dorothy, too—will discover that in some small towns the legend often outweighs the truth . . . and their family and friends will forever see Dorothy as “Jesse’s girl.”



Now the need to lock Dorothy in a tight embrace, and never let go, overwhelmed him. He would have picked her up and carried her to his car, then driven her all the way back to Los Angeles just to get her away from a life he instinctively knew made her miserable. Tim remembered her folks. Wilma Whitaker had been a difficult woman when she was healthy and relatively happy. He couldn’t imagine how losing Dorothy’s dad would have twisted Wilma up inside.

He must have squeezed too tightly, because Dorothy let out a breathy gasp and wriggled until he loosened his arms. She stepped backward with a blush and downcast eyes. “I really do have to go, Tim.” She raised her head and all the longing he’d already been experiencing, all the need, was plain to see on her lovely face, for about half a second.

Then, her expression shuttered, she picked up her purse from the battered nightstand next to the bed where she’d laid it, and moved toward the door. Tim followed, unsure what to say even though a hundred different lines crowded his head. Stay with me. Get to know me, again. Love me, the way I never stopped loving you.

They remained locked behind his compressed lips as he escorted her to the door and wished the last seven years had never happened.

In the open doorway she formed a smile that fell short of her eyes. “I’m glad we got to spend a little time together, Tim.” She slipped her arms around his waist for a quicksilver hug, then stepped back before he could reciprocate. “Please give your folks my best when you get back home.”

Tim flicked his eyes up to hers, then over her face, prettier than ever and without a speck of makeup. Her silky, red-blonde hair, combed back in its usual ponytail, was so unlike the current style he’d seen not only in California but here in Skitter Lake. Her dress wouldn’t have been out of place at the sock hops he remembered from twelfth grade. It was almost as if Dorothy Whitaker had frozen herself in time.

And he suddenly knew he wouldn’t be leaving at the end of the week. He’d stick around and see what was what. For Dorothy, and maybe even for Jesse.

Slowly, Tim reached out and clasped her fingers, then her wrist. Before he could talk himself out of it, he yanked her into his arms, up against his body, catching the back of her head, right below her ponytail. As her lips parted to speak, protest, whatever, he covered them with a kiss that spun out of control the instant it began. He wound an arm around her waist to anchor her tightly, but she’d already thrust her hands into his hair as she kissed him back. Tim groaned into her mouth and felt it echo back to him in the whimper she uttered that throbbed in the scant space between them.

For what seemed like an eternity, he kissed her, deep, then slow, then fast, greedy, pouring years of want and desire into a single, perfect moment. If he’d ever kissed another woman like this, he couldn’t remember. He deepened the kiss even more, and felt her fingers fist reflexively in his hair. He didn’t care if she ripped it out by the handfuls, as long as she never let go.

And as if she’d somehow heard his thoughts, she stiffened, opened her fists, slapped her hands on his chest, and pushed until he released her lips. Rosy red and swollen, they quivered as she stared up at him with shock in her eyes. She pushed again, a silent demand for him to let her go. It about killed him, but he loosened his arms and stepped back.

Silently, Tim bent to pick up the purse she’d dropped, and gave it to her. As her fingers closed over the pale yellow leather, she whispered, “Why?”

He managed—barely—to keep his hands to himself as he replied, “Because I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying. And when I do leave, Dorothy, you’ll be coming with me.”



Char Chaffin

Char Chaffin writes multi-genre romance filled with family, rich characters and engaging plots. For her, it all comes back to the love.

A displaced Alaskan, Char travels extensively, and lives full-time in a motorhome with hubby Don, a retired Air Force man with a love of Fifties rock n’ roll and a passion for hot, classic cars. Between them they have three children and four grandchildren, all scattered to the far corners of the country.

Her love of romance and erotica interspersed with paranormal, horror, science fiction and fantasy has inflated her reading collection into several groaning bookcases and an overburdened Kindle. Char voraciously reads in between writing novels, novellas, and short stories. She is multi-published, and always working on that next manuscript.

Romance Weekly – the Fan Fiction challenge.

Love Write Chat

Welcome to the romance Writers Weekly blog hop, where every week a great group of romance writers answer questions and accept challenges. Diverse in what we write, we are unified in the quest to bring you, the romance reader, a very happy ever after.

RWW also has a website with its own blog, a newsletter, and can be found on Facebook, and Twitter (@RWWBlog).

Festive Stocking Filled with Candycanes and Gingerbread Man

If you’ve wondered in from Xio Axelrod’s blog post or are just starting your hop here with me, get set for some awesome Fan Fiction.

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Today’ s challenge comes from Jo Richardson – FanFiction is getting a lot of attention these days. Certain books have opened up the “pull to publish” flood gates, as it were – whether people like it or not. What fandom do you have a thing for? I want the title and opening scene (short or long) that you would give to a FanFiction you might write, if you were so inclined to, that is. :D


I have always been a fan of the Marvel universe (Comics and Movies) and today I am inspired by this scene:


Ignore everything after the 2:45 mark, because that’s the point I turn Captain America: The Winter Soldier into a romantic comedy.



“On my mark . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1”

Natalia Romanoff crouched behind the oil drum, footsteps pounding toward her on the metal ship’s decking. Sounds like only three. Easy.

She kicked out and around, tripping the first, while springing up and over the falling man to land in front of the two that followed. Activating her wrist-stingers, she punched out, shocking the two pirates into unconsciousness.

Bound hostages lined the wall of the cabin ahead. The lone pirate that remained had his rifle trained on the prisoners.

Grasping one of the stingers from her wrist, Natalia activated it and threw it at the pirate.

Electricity sparked around him as the man slumped to the deck.

She brought her wrist-com to her mouth. “Hostages secured.”

Steve’s voice crackled back over the intercom. “Good work. I’ve got Batroc as well. Free the Hostages and meet me on deck.”

She smiled. “Roger Rogers.” He hated when she did that.

Back to date-planning for Captain America. That poor man needed some action. I don’t think he’s been on a date since 1945. Maybe Agent 13 . . .


Natalia. Steve Rogers shook his head. Did she even suspect?

As he headed down the stairs from the bridge, he spotted the Black Widow standing at ease on the deck below. Her sleek lines never failed to capture his attention. Did she have any idea how hard it was becoming to keep things casual? And now she’s playing match-maker.

The movement in the shadows drew his gaze. It was subtle, but he could tell by her casual shift in stance, that Natalia was already aware of the pirate to her right. I can stand back and enjoy the show, or . . .

Steve launched his shield. “Romanoff, get down.”

He dove toward her, wrapping his arms around her and taking her to the deck under him. Her supple body against his brought all kinds of ideas to mind. Yeah, this is so worth it.

His shield clanged off the Pirate before both dropped to the deck.

“I had that, you know.” Natalia rolled her eyes at him. Beautiful pools of dark enchantment.

Steve continued to hold her. “I know.”

She shrugged then her eyes narrowed. “What about Sharon Carter?”

His old flame’s niece? That was the last straw. His lips hovered dangerously close to hers. Resistance is futile. The phrase seemed to fit. He dipped his head and captured her lips.

“Mmm?” Her body tensed under him before surrendering to his embrace. She opened to him then. Soft, sweet, and incredibly tender. Words he’d never thought to associate with the Natalia Romanoff.

Breaking off the kiss, his gaze met hers. “What are you doing Saturday night?”

Confusion danced across her eyes.

“Yeah, I’m asking you out.” It wasn’t often anyone could catch the Black Widow off her guard. “And fair warning . . . if you say yes . . . I’m leaving the Boy Scout at home.”


As for the rest, I probably won’t get around to writing it, but if I did it sure wouldn’t be this:

So, what fandom did Eden Ashe write in? Find out as the Romance Writers Weekly blog hop continues at:!blog/czp4

And check out Dragon’s Redemption, Book 2 in her incredible Dragon Lore series:

Dragon's Redemption

Thursday Threads – Phantom Traces

Today on Thursday Threads we feature Claire Gem’s newest, Phantom Traces:


Title: Phantom Traces
Heat Level: Simmering
Genre: Contemporary w/paranormal elements


A hunky history professor in a tweed jacket, a cheeky Goth chick, and a pipe-smoking, book-hurling ghost. Put them all together in an antiquated library and, well…

Professor Jack Wood’s silver-streaked hair definitely ages him, and he can thank Killer Dawn for that. He won’t be falling into the love trap again anytime real soon. But this new librarian has him curious, with her head-to-toe black Goth garb, piercings, and a defiant attitude to match. Definitely not his type of girl, but still…

Abigail Stryker’s got her work cut out for her. The last two librarians didn’t last a month before airborne books chased them off. But Abby’s determined to make her new life a go – and to stay as far away from older men as possible. Once was enough. Might be tough to do when the library’s best patron is none other than dreamy-eyed Jack Wood. And it seems the eccentric ghost may have taken a shine to her as well.



Buy Link:


At that moment, the lights in the building flickered, dropping dim and pale. They pulsed for a beat, then went completely out. It was still light outside, though the fading twilight cast the interior into near blackness.

“What the . . .” She looked around, wrapping her arms around herself and instinctively moving a step closer to Jack.

“Oh, that’s not unusual around here.” His voice was calm and reassuring. “Blue Ridge Power is infamous for testing transformers at the darnedest times of day.”

By the time he finished speaking, the lights began to glow, then steadily increased until they were fully illuminated. He grinned over at her. “At least it doesn’t last long.”

His killer smile shot a jitter through her middle again. She smiled back but found she couldn’t hold his gaze long without feeling as if she had a fever coming on. She turned away.

“I’d better let you get to work,” she mumbled, then scooted around the reception desk and into the back room.

Tea. I just need a cup of peppermint tea to get my mind back where it belongs.

As she stood in the small anteroom, she could feel Jack watching her from his seat across the way. She dunked the tea bag in the steaming water for way longer than necessary. As the pale green essence oozed into the water, all she could think of was how the hue almost matched the color of his eyes.




Claire Gem

Claire Gem






Thoughts for Thursday: Sex, Tweets and Video Trailers

Originally posted on Romance Writers Weekly:

Sex, Tweets and Video Trailers

This week’s Thoughts for Thursday come from RWW Author Kim Handysides


Who doesn’t love stories? Reading, watching, hearing, telling them. But writing them is hard. Ergo the oft-quoted Red Smith adage, “Writing is easy, just open a vein and bleed.”

I have done my share of this soul and emotional cutting over the years. But my biggest self-inflicted injuries come from the struggle between writing for love and writing for money. Or doing anything for money. Which is why here I sit holding onto an almost (second place) award winning story ready to go to a publisher and yet not sending it out. I know, from all my wonderful and wonderfully talented author friends that the struggle only really starts once you’ve signed with a publisher. You are then inundated with jabs to the kidneys and throat from your editor, your marketing manager…

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