I mentioned in a previous post that I once took a nosedive in front of a busy Starbucks in midtown Manhattan, but I neglected to tell you that I actually have a history of falling in just about every major city that I’ve visited. Since we really like to travel, and we make a goal of seeing at least three new cities every year, you can imagine I’m often kissing pavement. For entertainment purposes, I’ll recap a few of my finer moments for you.
Chicago, which is one of my favorite cities to visit at Christmas time, once saw me bellyflop right in the middle of the Magnificent Mile. Yes, folks, I was crossing the street right in front of Crate and Barrel when I stepped in a little pothole and pitched forward. Liam, who is always on a mission when he’s visiting a new city, didn’t realize that I’d fallen until he reached the other side of the crosswalk. With exasperation, he turned to where I was picking myself up out of the middle of the street, and waved impatiently. This was all while I was dodging the taxis who wanted me OUT OF THE WAY the moment the light turned green.
While in Savannah, we were taking some steps down an alleyway to the waterfront, and I was very carefully watching where I was going. There wasn’t a soul in sight, but I still didn’t want the pain of tumbling down a flight of steps. Then, out of nowhere, a large group of twenty-somethings appeared, flying up the steps at a very fast pace. I moved to get out of the way, and that’s when it happened. A speck of dust or a gust of air must have gotten underfoot, and I slipped and fell. My backside hit four stone steps before I came to a stop, red-faced and mortified at the feet of one of the guys in the group.
Again, in New York City, Liam and I were heading home after a day at work, and we were navigating the busy subway station. I started down the steps to catch our train, and it happened again. Water, an oil slick…who knows? Anyway, my foot hit it and I was off, bouncing down half a flight of stairs on my knees before I reached the bottom. Let me tell you, the people in New York City get a bad rap for being rude, because at least five people darted over to help me stand and gather my things, which I’d thrown all over the station during my tumble.
There have been a few other mishaps, like the one in Honolulu, where I accidentally dumped my soda on a surfer (I cannot make this stuff up) and then slipped in the puddle on the floor as I hurried to get him some napkins. Or the time my chair slipped out from under me in a restaurant in Louisville and dumped me unceremoniously into the floor. There was also the incident where I fell while trying to get out of a shopping cart on Barracks Street in Cork (you probably shouldn’t ask about that one).
I say all of this to say that I am finally victorious! Our Christmas trip this year was to Seattle, and I managed the entire trip – two days Seattle and one in Portland – without taking a tumble. This is an amazing feat for me, and probably some kind of record. I should also stop bragging about my sudden discovery of grace, because I’m sure I’ll more than make up for it the next time I visit a new city. To be honest, I’m glad I still have all my teeth, but I’m even more thankful for the incidents. What? That’s crazy! But it’s true. I love nothing more than to laugh at myself, and these trips have given me plenty of giggles. What these spectacular tumbles have also done is ensure that I never, ever, ever forget any of the traveling I’ve done, and that’s a gift.
My nephew has drawn the winner, who will receive a copy of Between Seasons from Aida Brassington. Dianewordsmith is the lucky winner! Congratulations, and I know you’ll enjoy it!
I’ve eagerly awaited work from Aida Brassington and was thrilled to learn that she’s released her first novel, Between Seasons. I currently have my grubby little hands on it, and I can’t wait to dig right in.
Aida was kind enough to answer a few questions about her book, her writing process, and her affection for kilts. Read on and learn why I’m such a fan. Be sure to read on to the end, where you’ll learn how to win a copy of Between Seasons!
As my husband always says, “What’s your book about?”
Between Seasons tells the story of Patrick Boyle, a 19-year-old man who dies in 1970 and becomes trapped in his childhood home. His parents take off, and forty years later a young woman moves in.
Here’s the official blurb:
There are things Patrick Boyle will never forget: the sound of his own neck breaking at the moment of his death in the fall of 1970, the sweet taste of his mother’s chocolate cake, and the awful day his parents abandoned him in his childhood house-turned prison.
Nineteen-year-old Patrick wonders for decades if God has forgotten all about him or if he’s being punished for some terrible crime or sin over a lovely forty years trapped in an empty home. But when Sara Oswald, a strange woman with a mysterious past, buys his house, old feelings reawaken, and a new optimism convinces him that she’s the answer to his prayers.
Things are never simple, though, especially when she begins channeling the memories of his life and death in her writing.
Do you remember the first thing you ever wrote? Can you tell us about it?
I had an imaginary friend when I was a kid, like when I was three or four – her name was Mona. While I don’t remember writing it, my mother still has pictures I drew of my family and Mona, including one on which I wrote a really bizarre short story (think flash fiction) about Mona and I going on a hay ride.
Do you prefer plaid or stripes?
Plaid, but only because I really like kilts.
Was choosing to publish independently something you always wanted, or an option you hadn’t considered before?
Like most writers, I want the fantasy: the literary agent, the traditional publishing deal, being able to walk into a Barnes & Noble and buy my novel right off a shelf. With the closing of Borders and print novel sales shrinking, agents are more and more nervous about taking on anything they aren’t 99.9% sure they can sell. So while independent publishing isn’t something I’ve always dreamed off, it’s becoming more and more of a reality for those of us with stories to tell. The success of indie authors demonstrates that agents and traditional publishers don’t necessarily know what people want to read – playing it safe in the publishing industry is the equivalent of cranking out nothing but remakes in the film industry: people get bored and want something truly new.
Are you working on anything new at the moment?
I am! I just began the follow-up novel to Between Seasons, and I just finished a project for National Novel Writing Month (a YA horror novel).
Do you have any rituals before writing? Music or silence? Coffee or tea? Twizzlers or M&Ms?
I tend to write sitting on my couch with the television on and my computer on my lap. For Between Seasons, I liked to listen to music since it’s such a big part of the novel – the music Patrick loved in 1970 as well as more modern music that Sara would have listened to in 2011.
Have you ever based a character on someone you know?
Absolutely! What writer hasn’t? Sara’s sister Julie is based on a woman I used to work with, and bits and pieces of Patrick and Sara are pulled from other people in my life.
What color is your umbrella?
Red and white alternating panels.
Who is your favorite author and why?
I have two: Kurt Vonnegut and John Irving. It makes sense since Irving considers Vonnegut a mentor, and I appreciate the way both of them handle language, plotting, and humor.
What was the last book you read?
I recently finished German For Travelers by Norah Labiner, which is a great novel put out by Coffeehouse Press.
Do you write about locations you’ve visited, or do you rely on research? Or do you make up entire settings in your head?
I tend to include locations I’ve been to – Between Seasons is set in Media, Pennsylvania, which is a small town not far from where I live. However, some of the novel takes place in a mental institution, which is somewhere (surprisingly) I’ve not been. I had to rely on the kindness of friends to get solid information about that experience.
After the last word is written, then what? Do you have pre-readers and editors who take over? Do you begin query letters immediately?
I’m anal retentive about getting feedback. After each chapter I write, it goes to a group of four people (some writers, some editors, some readers with a keen eye) who tear it apart. I revise based on their feedback and then it goes to my critique partner (an older man who writers really great mysteries), who also tears it apart. After that I feel reasonably happy with the outcome, but it goes to a few people who read just for reaction. And then I usually sit on a novel for another month or two before giving it another read and after more revision, then I start the query process.
What song would be on the soundtrack for your book?
Oooo, let’s see. I listened to “Slip Away” by Clarence Carter a lot during the early days of Patrick and Sara’s relationship, but I think the official song that’s perfect for Between Seasons is “Through Glass” by Stone Sour.
Where can people find your book?
It’s available in paperback and Kindle format at Amazon; Nook format at Barnes & Noble; and random e-formats (including PDF) at Smashwords.
Can we read a little excerpt?
To set this up, Patrick has died, and we get his thoughts on his wake:
“Yes, he had such a bright future.” His high school shop teacher stood by his aunt’s side, giving her the eye.
“I can’t believe you’re trying to get lucky at my wake, man.” Patrick chuckled and moved away, gravitating toward Ginny and her parents. He couldn’t believe what people were saying about him – hearing all about what a good guy he was, how generous he’d been, how kind and giving. Most of these people had barely known him. Dying transformed him into a hero, apparently, although that shouldn’t have surprised him – he’d been to a funeral or two, and no one ever said anything shitty about the person who’d kicked the bucket.
When the old guy down the street had a heart attack, Patrick’s mother had dragged him to the viewing. The man had been a real jerk, chasing kids off his lawn and stealing newspapers off his neighbors’ porches, but everyone had gone on and on about what a saint the guy’d been.
Ginny’s parents were deep in discussion about picking up milk on the way home, but Ginny’s lips clamped into a firm, white line. She looked upset, and even though Patrick thought this whole wake scene was idiotic, he was glad at least one person who really knew him – other than his parents – was sad he was gone. Well, not gone… dead.
“I have to visit the bathroom,” Ginny muttered, heading toward the stairs. Patrick followed, Ginny’s brown dress swishing around her legs as she climbed, and she immediately turned into his bedroom instead of the bathroom.
“Patrick?” she whispered, startling him.
“Ginny?” He moved closer, sinking fingers in her shoulder. She wrapped her arms across her chest, shuddering and staring out the window. “Hey, can you hear me?”
She crossed herself and continued to stare at the yard below. “I can’t believe you’re dead.”
“I can’t believe I’m dead, either. It kind of sucks.” He wished she would open the window so he could jump through. Wait. What would it matter? He’d just toss himself out of it – he could move through the glass and screens, no problem.
A lone tear traversed the slope of Ginny’s cheek, and she allowed it to roll to her chin before she wiped it away with the back of her hand. Patrick moved around and sat on his bed – all the crying was killing him. It was such a drag, and it made him feel bad for dying. It was definitely a buzz kill to his idea about trying the window – he couldn’t let Ginny cry by herself.
“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,” she mumbled, touching the glass. Patrick’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. What was that from? “If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.”
It came to him in a few moments. “Nice.” He snorted in amusement. “Seeing me off with some Whitman. I hear it’s better than the mass during my funeral – Andy said it was like cats squealing or something when the soloist sang.”
You can learn more about Aida by visiting her website. Her novel is also listed on GoodReads, and she invites you to follow her on Twitter.
CONTEST RULES:
To enter, simply leave a comment. The contest will close on Friday at 11:59 pm CST. At that time, all names will be dropped into a hat and an impartial third party (my 11-year-old nephew) will draw for the winner. The winner will then be announced here on the site, on my Twitter account, and on Aida’s Twitter account. In the event that we do not hear from the winner within twenty-four hours, another winner will be drawn. Just in case, it’s a good idea to follow both of us so you don’t miss out!
There’s something about this time of year that awakens the gourmet chef in me. Of course, I must use this term “gourmet chef” to describe how I feel, and not how I actually bake or cook. I want to smell cinnamon and other glorious spices throughout the house, sink my teeth into warm cookies, and prepare hearty soups to ward off the chill of forty-degree weather (What? I live in Nashville. It just doesn’t get that cold here in November.) Unfortunately, I have a rather storied past involving kitchens and baking and all that fun stuff, so I end up lighting a candle for the cinnamon smells, picking up pre-prepared dough for the warm cookies, and Liam hates soup anyway, so that’s a complete non-issue in our house.
When I first realized that I could be a complete and utter disaster in the kitchen was when I was about…thirteen. You know, that age when parents believe we can handle light cooking here and there? In the very same debacle, I melted a container in the microwave while making rice and melted a plastic saltshaker into a puddle on the stove. While dealing with the aftermath of one, the other happened. I’d like to say that I felt the right amount of panic and dismay, but really, my sister and I just collapsed in giggles and couldn’t move for several minutes.
Fast forward to some time in college. (This doesn’t mean there weren’t more disasters in between, though. Oh, yes. There were disasters.) It was nearly Christmas, and I had that burning desire to enjoy warm cookies – as previously mentioned – so I bought all the ingredients that weren’t already in my kitchen and got to work. Homemade cookies are no picnic, but it’s always been worth it to me (of course, those homemade cookies weren’t made by me…they were made by my mother.) Pan after pan of cookies came out of the oven, piping hot and a little flat looking. As a self-confessed disaster in the kitchen, I figured if flat was the worst that had happened, I’d done pretty well.
This idiot didn’t bother taste testing before plating and presenting to a room full of friends. Imagine the looks of surprise and disgust, if you will. These lovely people snatched up cookies, crammed them into their mouths, and then froze. Immediately, my mind whirled. What did I do? Did I do that stupid salt instead of sugar thing? What a cliché! Panicked, I tried a bite. Oh, no. They were sweet enough. They were also…gritty. I’d made an accidental substitution, but it was corn meal for flour. My chocolate chip corncake cookies are still a bit of a legend among those who were present that day. And most of them arch an eyebrow in concern when I offer them baked goods of any kind.
Don’t get me wrong; I have a few tried and true items that I can pull off every time. I’m pretty sure my first try was probably a disaster, but I can handle quite a few meals on a regular basis. I find it hard to mess up steak and baked potatoes, which is Liam’s favorite dish. If I do get the pre-made cookie dough, there are always delicious cookies in the house. I even get a little creative here and there to produce white chicken chili or white chicken lasagna (okay, so not terribly creative.)
In spite of my tendency to destroy most kitchen projects, I still crave the projects. I try to make the most of my desire to bake or cook, finding easy ways around the hardest parts of the recipe. I often throw things together and hope for the best, and if it doesn’t work out, I make a PB & J for my poor husband. I haven’t burned a kitchen down yet, so I’m gonna keep trying to invoke my inner gourmet chef, at least during this time of year.
I enjoy posting interviews with authors I like and respect, but it has been a while. I now come bearing Carol Oates, so I know you’ll forgive me for the lapse. Carol’s work involves a great deal of Ireland, Irish mythology, Irish slang, and Irish snark. Anyone wondering why I like her? Anyone? You’ll like her, too, after you spend a few moments with her.
As my husband always says, “What’s your book about?”
My latest release, Ember is about a girl called Candra who falls from the upper level of a parking garage and sees a young man with wings before she passes out. She wakes up in hospital and quickly finds out her existence will end a peace treaty among angels on earth. She must choose a side or risk a war. Her problem is no one is what they seem to be and her heart is leading her in a direction she shouldn’t go.
Sebastian is a Watcher angel, abandoned on earth after a war to wipe out the Nephilim. He is deeply tormented by his past and struggling to come to terms with his present. He never expected to find himself protecting one of the creatures that cost him heaven from his oldest enemy.
Do you remember the first thing you ever wrote? Can you tell us about it?
The first thing I remember writing was ‘Our News’. It was a writing exercise for telling what we did the previous day. I couldn’t have been more than six.
The first fiction I wrote was about an all-girl band called Gem, led by two sisters named Sydney and Max. Sydney went on to marry an actor and had a difficult pregnancy before she gave birth to twins. She later divorced and then remarried the same person, gave up her music career and became a doctor. Her younger sister, Maxine married the lead singer of a successful band. She didn’t want children. Maxine went into fashion at some point and was always playing matchmaker every time her sister’s relationship hit the rocks. It was a collab with a school friend and a total soap opera with guest appearances from a number of celebrities. I think we would have been about ten at the time.
Do you prefer plaid or stripes?
Is that a trick question? lol I called my brother to see if you were trying to shrink me. He said my suspicion and the way I stressed over getting the ‘right’ answer said more about my personality than the question. 🙂 So, stripes…no, plaid. No, stripes. Can I have both?
Was choosing to publish independently something you always wanted, or an option you hadn’t considered before?
I want to do everything, I’m greedy like that. lol. Seriously, when I decided to pursue publishing as opposed to writing and not sharing it, I didn’t know what I wanted. I thought I did and almost became the victim of a publishing scam. I began to learn the business. I figured if i just wanted to be a part of an industry that I’d better start learning that industry inside and out.
I hit another hurdle when I again tried to step into a business I wasn’t ready for and I became overwhelmed. It wasn’t helped by personal issues at the time. As that point I stepped away from writing completely for the first time in my life. I trunked everything and didn’t write for a year.
I consider myself lucky that one day I stumbled onto a story online, a piece of fanfiction. I began chatting with other women reading the same story and that eventually led to setting up a closed social group. I virtually met some wonderful women. What started out as screen names and a place to have a laugh became real-life friendships with some of the most wonderful women I know sharing our best ups and worst downs. Through them I got my mojo back. I went back to the drawing board and asked myself what I wanted. I decided I still wanted it all(seriously, sometimes there is no stopping me) but I decided I wanted to approach it like I would any job, slow and steady.
At that point I had no intention of self-publishing. I simply wasn’t ready for it. When the opportunity to submit Shades of Atlantis to Omnific Publishing came up, I measured my expectations against what they could give me. It had been less than a year since their first release and I knew it was a risk submitting to a new kid on the block. Of course, I was a new kid too. I felt we were a good fit and strongly believed it was a company going places and I wanted to go with them. Obviously, I was over the moon when I was offered a contract.
Right from the beginning I knew I’d made the right decision for me. Going with a brand new, small publisher won’t suit everyone nor would I advise it to everyone. My publisher has always been incredibly supportive and continues to grow. So when it came time to submit my second novel, Ember, I didn’t hesitate. Again, it’s been a wonderful experience and the authors I met though Omnific Publishing, the readers and reviewers gave me the confidence in my writing to try self-publishing for the first time.
I wrote a short story for an autism fundraiser. When the fundraiser was over, I re-edited and added to Unfinished. Self-publishing is hard. I mean, I knew it would be a lot of work. I wasn’t prepared for the sense of free fall that comes along with it. Everything was up to me. I was responsible for content, formatting, cover, dealing with distributors and marketing it. All with no safety net of a publisher. Scary stuff. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment but because I wanted to learn all I could about all aspects of publishing, I was determined to do it all myself. Aside from editing, I did it all. I taught myself how to format and drove myself crazy because of that extra space I found in the fifteenth version. I designed the cover and then redesigned it three times. I uploaded to smashwords and, I’m glad to say, passed the meatgrinder first go. Next, I loaded to Amazon. I uploaded the wrong file… twice. Set it at the wrong price and in the wrong genre. Eventually I decided I had to let it sink or swim. So far it’s floating happily and is now free from most vendors.
I ended up with a renewed respect for self-publishers. Anyone who says self-publishing is easy, is selling something but I’m very glad I did it and I learned a little about a new area of publishing. I may do it again in the future. For now I want to concentrate on writing, maybe I’m a bit too lazy or too neurotic for self-publishing. lol
Are you working on anything new at the moment?
I’ve finished the sequel for Ember. I’m revising, revising, revising based on early feedback. One of my pre-readers is expecting it by the end of next week. I find I work better on a deadline. I’m also working on the sequel to Shades of Atlantis. I hope to have that finished by the end of the year. After SoA, I’ll get back to adapting a script to a novel. Did I mention I also wrote a script because I wanted to learn that process too? 🙂 One of the characters from the script appeared in Unfinished. Then it’s a dark vampire novel I’ve been adding to on and off since last year. Basically I’m set for the next while.
Do you have any rituals before writing? Music or silence? Coffee or tea? Twizzlers or M&Ms?
I’ve looked hard but I don’t see whiskey and chocolate on the list. Haha. The last few months have been a bit crazy and I’ve been snatching writing time where I can, so I haven’t had time for many rituals. On a very good day it’s a tuna melt and a mocha.
Have you ever based a character on someone you know?
I stole my brother’s soul and sacrificed him to the book demons. 🙂 At least that’s what he tells me when he reads my work or catches me jotting down our conversations on post-its. My brother comes out with great one-liners. We share a very Irish sense of humour, quite dry and brimming over with banter. I see bits of him in several of my characters, not always the guys. lol Don’t tell him. There is also a little of me in all of them. They live in my head and absorb bits of me by osmosis before crawling out onto the page. Not a pleasant visual, I’m sure. Other than that, they are pure fiction. The thing about fictional characters is they become real to the author. If they aren’t real to the author, how can they be real to the reader? For me, I can’t really base them on anyone, they would pitch a fit and refuse to co-operate if I tried to box them in to fit anyone I know.
What color is your umbrella?
See, the other questions I can go on forever answering but this… this has my brain spinning. Immediately I’m seeing long plaid and stripped umbrellas in my head. The characters from SoA and Ember are having pretend sword fights with them while a vampire plays chess with ghost outside a coffee shop in Paris. Work that out if you can. lol
The brolly in my handbag is black and folds up tiny.
Who is your favorite author and why?
Disclaimer, I’ve said this before, but it’s worth saying again I have a few favorite authors but I think if I was to choose one over all. No contest, William Goldman author of the Princess Bride. The book is fantastic and I’ve read it at least twenty times. Most people know the book or the movie but not the back-story. The book was published William Goldman as an abridged account of story by S. Morgenstern and Goldman comments throughout. S. Morgenstern doesn’t really exist, yet is presented as a real person. For years, legal difficultly with Morgenstern’s ‘estate’ prevented the sequel, Buttercup’s Baby being published by Goldman. For me it is the ultimate dream within a dream and that’s what we writers are all about. The world Goldman created around the book, bringing it to life, it’s an example of what I would love to achieve one day.
The mini website, where you can request a scene deleted because of legal issues with Morgenstern. I won’t ruin the surprise by saying what it is.
What was the last book you read?
The White Cat by Holly Black
Do you write about locations you’ve visited, or do you rely on research? Or do you make up entire settings in your head?
I do it all. If the locations are near, within reason, I go to them, especially the locations in Ireland. I recently wrote a post about scouting locations for a house. I clocked up a lot of miles. SoA was set in Maine, London, Dublin and Meath with a mention of Vincennes near Paris. I’ve visited all but Maine and relied on extensive research of the area.
For a short story called The Summer Prince (currently out of print), I went down to a little country village in the middle of Ireland and wandered around for a few hours to get a sense of the place.
Ember is set in Acheron. A fictional city with elements of New York, London, Paris and Madrid, again places I’ve been. I melded them together using artistic licence as glue.
After the last word is written, then what? Do you have pre-readers and editors who take over? Do you begin query letters immediately?
First, I have a glass of champagne, Moët & Chandon. At this point I have a glass after each stage. I get feedback from my brother and sister-in-law. Revise. Champagne. Feedback from some writer friends. Revise, revise. Champagne. Feedback from pre-readers. Revise, revise, revise. Champagne. I’ll also write my submission summary and query at this point, knowing if the piece is accepted I will be working with an editor for several more months. Champagne. 🙂
What song would be on the soundtrack for your book?
Sebastian’s eyes lowered, and she followed his line of sight to his chest where her hands were pressed against his white t-shirt, her fingers slightly bent. She could feel heat of his skin radiate through the thin fabric and penetrate her fingertips. Still, it took a couple of seconds before she could move. Sebastian had that effect on females, much like the effect Lofi had had on the guys a few moments ago.
“Sorry.” She cringed when he had to wrap his long fingers around one of her hands and then the other to remove them from his body. “I didn’t see you.”
“You’re not very observant, are you?” he quipped dryly.
Candra flinched away from the touch of his bare skin on hers and the tingles it made erupt in the pit of her stomach. “I’m plenty observant. Thanks.”
Sebastian let out an exasperated sigh. “Hmm, yeah, whatever. It wasn’t a conversation starter.” He took her bag from her shoulder without asking and added it to his with one hand. In the other he carried a faded brown leather jacket clamped between his fingers. He didn’t tell Candra to follow him or even check to see if she was still with him when he walked away; he seemed to simply presume she would be, and she was.
“Where’s Brie?”
“A meeting,” he replied without looking at her.
“A meeting?”
“A meeting,” he repeated.
“With who?” Candra had to take some quick steps to keep up with his long strides. She wanted to see his face when he answered.
“An old friend,” he said, taking her by the elbow to cross the street, looking up and down for traffic before guiding her the way a grown up would do with a child or an old person.
Candra stared up at the vein standing out from the lightly golden skin on his neck as they crossed. She supposed tension or anxiety caused it and surmised from it that something was bothering him. Her eyes tightened. “You don’t have meetings with friends. You have lunch dates, dinner dates…coffee.”
His lips pressed together in a hard line, and his shoulders tightened. The muscle in his jaw flexed. “Do you really need to go on?”
“I could,” Candra snapped defiantly.
“I’m sure.”
“What is it about me that you don’t like?”
They had come to the gates of the small park she always cut through to get home from college.
“What makes you think I don’t like you?” Sebastian didn’t as much as glance at her sideways when he spoke. “Or that I think one way or the other about you at all?”
“Call it women’s intuition,” Candra said dryly.
“Women’s intuition?” He snickered. “You’re not exactly what I’d call a woman, little girl.”
Candra bit her tongue, choosing to ignore the bait. There weren’t many people around the park; it was mainly used as a shortcut through a city block. There weren’t even any trees inside its boundary fence, just a few bushes, one of the many angel monuments scattered across the city. The nearest one to them had its hands clasped in prayer and looked to the sky as if it was waiting for something. A narrow pathway wound through the grass and past a collection of boulders that didn’t look like they belonged there. They could have been some trendy form of modern art, except they had been there so long some of the stone had been worn smooth from people sitting on them.
Candra took a deep breath, hoping she wasn’t starting a conversation she couldn’t take back. She wanted answers so badly she could taste them, but at the same time, somewhere in the back of her mind, she considered the possibility Sebastian could tell her things she didn’t want to know.
“In the hospital, I thought you were dangerous. I thought you were there to hurt me, but it wasn’t like that at all, was it?”
It took a moment for her to notice Sebastian wasn’t beside her anymore. She turned around to see he had stopped dead about five steps behind. He was doing that thing again, where he made her feel he wasn’t looking at her, but rather he was looking through her, as if he could look into her mind and dig out whatever she was thinking. It was unnerving the way his brown eyes darkened intensely. She felt exposed, and she had to fight an urge to cross her arms over her chest, except she refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he could affect her. Unfortunately, she couldn’t shake the feeling he already knew.
He didn’t answer. He wasn’t even moving apart from his impossibly long eyelashes fluttering when he blinked.
“I make you uncomfortable, don’t I? That’s why you don’t like me,” she suggested in a hushed voice.
Still he said nothing. An old couple walking past on the pathway had to step around them to get by. The woman glared at both of them in turn, clearly disgruntled by their lack of manners. Candra mused over what they must look like to outsiders: her in her Saint Francis uniform and him looking moody and modelesque, like he’d just stepped off a movie screen and into real life.
Finally she approached him, bringing herself so close she was looking up to his face. He was taller up close, at least a head over her, so she couldn’t meet his eyes when he looked straight ahead of him, but she tried.
“Tell me who I am,” she demanded.
Sebastian looked down to her then, gold and amber flickered in his eyes blazing like a hot coal fire. Candra could see her own reflection in the deep blackness of his pupils and knew she had asked the right question.
“We didn’t fool you for a second, did we?” Sebastian kept his fiery gaze on her.
Candra guessed he was about to inadvertently spill the beans on everything. All she had to do was play along.
“No, you didn’t,” she stated coolly.
They were so close now she could feel the heat rising from his body. Her heart sped until it was galloping along, and her temperature shot up, mingling with his heat between them. A small muscle twitched at the side of his mouth, and his hand came up to rest on her shoulder. She couldn’t breathe. Even through the cotton of her school shirt, Sebastian’s touch burned her skin.
Then he did something Candra didn’t expect — not in a million years. Candra couldn’t move. Sebastian was going to kiss her, and she was amazed to realize she wanted him to. All of a sudden her blood was like acid burning through her entire body, and her head felt clouded. She was putty under his hands. It wasn’t like she had a choice; she had to kiss him. Her lips parted in anticipation, her head tilted back, and without conscious decision, her eyes closed.
Behind her eyelids, fireworks exploded, white fireworks. They could have been anywhere; she didn’t care. It was as if time slowed down. Sebastian’s breath was hot as it brushed the side of her face, and he smelled delicious, like cool, fresh mint mingled with musk and salt.
She didn’t know how it happened. A few moments ago she couldn’t stand him, now she couldn’t think of one thing in the world she wanted more than to feel his lips moving against hers.
Sebastian slid his hand slowly and intently up Candra’s neck, absorbing the shiver of her skin through his fingertips and leaving a trail of goose bumps over her flesh. His other hand brushed hair from her face, and his lips parted close to her ear. Candra let out a quiet gasp.
“Nice try,” he whispered.
******
Thank you for having me at your site today. It’s been fun.
Ember is Carol’s second full-length novel, following her impressive first outing of Shades of Atlantis. Be sure to visit her Blog, follow her on Twitter, become a fan on Goodreads, and check out her Facebook page. Lastly, enjoy the book trailer!
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