On March 19, visit http://catemasters.blogspot.com/ for a chance to win a copy of Seventh Heaven! That’s the day TWRP will release my Vintage Rosette story set in the late 1960s. I incorporated the music I loved while growing up in the Lambertville/New Hope area, where the story is set. The hero, James, is named for James Paul McCartney (pardon me, I should say “Sir” these days), my childhood idol. The Music Circus existed until the late Seventies, and Judy Collins did perform there, as she does in my story. But I won’t give too much away – you’ll have to come back on March 19 to try to win a copy, or go to the Wild Rose Press site and purchase a copy!
The excerpt follows the trailer, below.
Here’s the excerpt:
James stands in the open doorway. The choker gleams from his neck. “I came by to say thanks.”
The distance she’d felt between them last night is gone. His warm eyes search hers, reaching again for a connection.
“I didn’t know it was you.” She steps from behind the counter. No more barriers between them.
He closes the door. “So. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. It looks good. It’s an--”
“An ankh. I know.” Something seems to be holding him back, but somehow she knows she must be patient, let him come to her.
“The Egyptian symbol of eternity.” She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, and her breath is jagged. “Sorry. I mean, Ben told us. It really stinks you’re leaving.”
He runs a finger across a glazed jug. “Bad timing.”
She clasps her hands in front of her. “I guess it’s never a good time…”
He glances up and flashes a switchblade smile. “I mean, I wish we had more time.” His soft voice rushes at her like the wind and billows the sails of her heart’s rocky boat.
The air thins, seems rarified. “Me, too.”
He takes a step closer. Time feels maddeningly slow. She wants to run to him, fill her arms with him.
She folds her arms. “I hope you’ll write me, if you get a chance.”
“Yeah?”
He’s within arm’s reach. His gaze flows over her inch by inch, over every curve and hollow.
The floor needs sweeping. And needs to be smaller. Or his steps need to be more expansive. “Sure, I’ll keep you up on the local gossip. Send you goodie packages.” A lock of her hair. A photo of herself so he’ll think of her every day. And night.
His eyes lock on hers. “That’d be nice.”
“We’re going to miss you around here.”
“You will?” The timbre of his voice rumbles inside her like an earthquake.
With his last step, he is so close her skin tingles with his heat. “No one can make a margarita like you.”
He fingers her hair, tucks a strand behind her shoulder. “Come back tonight. I’ll make you all the margaritas you can drink.”
In her head she is already there, sipping at a wide-rimmed glass, serenaded by Dylan in the background, James attending to her alone. “OK.”
“See you about seven, then?”
She smiles. “Seven it is.”
He backs toward the door, slowly, as if still taking her in. The silver ankh winks in the light as he turns to leave.
Visit Cate Masters online at http://catemasters.ning.com/ or http://catemasters.blogspot.com or friend her on Facebook (as C.A. Masterson)
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