Publication date: March 11th, 2021
Synopsis:
When it seemed like everyone around Anthony Fender was reaching a goal or falling in love, he blamed an early midlife crisis for throwing him far outside of his comfort zone. Nashville was a long way from New York and his everyday life that'd lost all color lately.
Hopefully, this vacation would reenergize him, and maybe a cooking class with celebrity chef August King could end Anthony's reign as the only Italian in Brooklyn who couldn't boil water. But when he met August and his much younger husband, Camden, every plan and all rational thought flew out the window. Their dynamic grabbed hold of Anthony and reeled him in before he even heard the magic word.
"Daddy."
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Excerpt
"Hi."
I whipped my head to the left and spotted Camden, and I nearly swallowed my tongue. He stood there, hesitating by the den, and grinned shyly. Dressed in only a pair of sweatpants drawn up to his knees.
Could he even buy his own beer? No, really. His entire appearance was a complete mindfuck. Boyish looks combined with the average height of a middle schooler made me wanna ask if he wanted a juice box. But the young man also had ink covering his calves, and he had piercings in both nipples and his right eyebrow.
Not a single mark on his upper body, though. Just pale, soft-looking skin.
I swallowed hard.
Camden Adair wasn't my usual type, but there was something intoxicating about that boy. It was the mixture of sweet innocence and attitude. I saw it in his eyes every damn week.
And I was staring.
I cleared my throat and closed the fridge again.
But before I could say something, King was back. He opened the door and strode in with two large bags that he set on the kitchen island.
"There you are, darlin'. Did you get to introduce yourself to your latest favorite New Yorker?"
Camden laughed and walked toward me. "I was just about it. Hi, Mr. Fender. Nice to meet you in person."
"You too!"
Just as I was about to break the handshake, I dropped my gaze to his hand and instinctively tightened my grip. You gotta be fucking kidding me. I clenched my jaw. There was a tattoo of a small snake slithering up his thumb.
I released his hand quickly and took a couple steps back. He was peering up at me with curiosity and... something else.
What had I just walked into?
I'm often awkwardly silent or, if the topic interests me, a chronic rambler. In other words, I can discuss writing forever and ever. Fiction, in particular. The love story--while a huge draw and constantly present--is secondary for me, because there's so much more to writing romance fiction than just making two (or more) people fall in love and have hot sex.
There's a world to build, characters to develop, interests to create, and a topic or two to research thoroughly.
Every book is a challenge for me, an opportunity to learn something new, and a puzzle to piece together. I want my characters to come to life, and the only way I know to do that is to give them substance--passions, history, goals, quirks, and strong opinions--and to let them evolve.
I want my men and women to be relatable. That means allowing room for everyday problems and, for lack of a better word, flaws. My characters will never be perfect.
Wait... this was supposed to be about me, not my writing.
I'm a writey person who loves to write. Always wanderlusting, twitterpating, kinking, cooking, baking, and geeking. There's time for hockey and family, too. But mostly, I just love to write.
