Monday, February 15, 2010
Chocoholic and Proud of It!
I'm a multipublished author and I write contemporary, fantasy and sci/fi romance with interracial characters. But what I never knew was that I was a chocoholic until my doctor suggested I stop eating chocolate for a month and then cut back thereafter. The horror! Was my first thought and an inkling something was wrong if I couldn’t stop eating chocolate. I shrugged it off and told myself okay not a big deal and dutifully complied—for a day. Then the cravings started, the irritability, the short tempered... the down right unpleasantness. I turned into a person I did not recognize. Neither did my husband.
My husband at his wits end took me to a movie, a premiere, one of those artsy types with subtitles. Now understand my husband loathes going to the movies, and he’d rather have his nails pulled than go to one with subtitles. Yet he took me to one, with subtitles, he knew I wanted to see. So this was huge. Huge enough that it shocked me out of my withdrawal, at least for awhile. When we got to the movie he dutifully got me buttered popcorn and a bottle of water. We held hands and watched the romance on the screen. This was one Valentine’s Day I would never forget. It reminded me why I married the guy in the first place.
I made it through the month and now no longer have to have my fix every day. But make no mistake, when I do have chocolate I want it unfiltered that means no mint, raspberry, strawberry, caramel, nuts or anything else to dilute the taste. I want pure unadulterated chocolate.
Any other chocoholics in the house?
For a peek at some of my work feel free to check out my website. My work is available at Red Rose Publishing, Freya's Bower, ARe and Amazon. I also want to thank Ginger for having me at Ginger’s Blog today.
Check out the excerpt below and the trailer of my newest release contemporary romance with a splice of intrigue from Red Rose Publishing, Chances Are.
The cool air slapped at Kayla, a tall striking woman with short curly sable-colored hair, as she walked out of the bank, her head held high, clutching a large cardboard box. Who would have thought her entire office, her professional life could be reduced to one box? But she'd be damned if, after fifteen years of faithful service to this bank, and the last three as the branch manager, she'd allow some pimple faced bozo with a bunch of initials after his name to see her cry. She'd wait until she got to the privacy of her own home to do that.
Maybe not even then.
The heavy oak door slammed shut behind her. The self-satisfied sound of Mr. Newington’s nasal voice still ringing in her ears.
“Ms. Michaels, I’m here to inform you in person, this branch is slated for closure in two weeks. A few of the tellers and staff here will be transferred to other branches with openings; however, there are no openings for your position. We have to lay you off, effective immediately. Your benefits will remain in tact for three months, and you will receive in compensation whatever remains of your vacation time for the year, along with one month’s salary. Expect an extraction packet in the mail in a couple of days, detailing everything. I’m going have to ask you to clear out your personal things, and leave the bank as quickly and quietly as possible.”
He wouldn’t even allow her to call the staff together to explain what happened, she barely had time to walk around and say goodbye to everyone. Mr. Newington, from corporate, kept coming out of her old office glancing at his watch as he watched her.
If he was a sample of the new bank’s owner, she wanted no part of it. She’d never set foot in there again, or any of that bank's branches. First thing tomorrow morning she’d close and transfer her checking, savings and IRA accounts to another bank, and she'd do it all online. The quarter ended at midnight, she wanted every dime of interest. It may not be enough to even be a blip on the bank’s radar screen but it was her money. She’d worked hard for it. And she could damned well put it anywhere she damned well pleased.
In a rush to get away from the building she had forgotten she didn’t have her car. She’d gotten a ride into work with her sister. Her car was in the shop, again. She couldn’t even reach her cell phone. It sat in the purse slung over her shoulder, wedged between the box and her side. She’d have to put the box down in the middle of the sidewalk to get to it.
She turned around to scan the almost empty mid-day autumn street of Old Town Alexandria for a cab; she’d probably have to walk up to the busier main road. Someone bumped into her shoulder—hard. Her box tumbled out of her hands, and her things scattered all over the sidewalk. The jerk who jostled her didn’t even bother to stop and help, he just muttered sorry and ran on.
“Asshole!” she screamed at his retreating back. After being treated so rudely, boy, it felt good to be able to yell at someone.
She bent down to pick up her things, when a large pale long fingered hand moved into her line of vision.
“Here you go,” a deep masculine voice said, causing her lower abdominal muscles to clench and contract.
The hand held a very pricey Waterford paperweight in the shape of the Capitol dome which used to sit on her desk. It had been a gift from her sister last Christmas.
She reached to take the paperweight away from him, when his fingers brushed against hers. Immediately, she pulled her hand back, dropping the paperweight in the process. Good thing it landed in the box on top of her sweater and not on the brick tiled sidewalk. Her sister would never forgive her if she broke it.
But who could blame her. Her fingers felt like they had plugged in a lamp with a faulty cord. The electric charge, coursing from her hand up her arm, reminded her of the one she’d gotten when she was eight after doing that very thing. Her gaze followed his masculine hand to a black leather-covered arm, up and up to the most incredible sight she’d ever seen in her life. She blinked twice. Her troubles got shoved to the back of her mind.