Growing up going to church every time the doors were open gave me an understanding of religion. But it was in the wide-open spaces of a summer camp that I came to love the Lord.

That’s a tough one. I love the strong heroines of Kate Quinn. The romance of Becky Wade. The intriguing character arcs of Kellie Coates Gilbert. And the heart-pounding action of Lisa Harris…and I’d squeeze you in too, Lena.

My training is on the stage, so I love it whenever I have an opportunity to stand behind a microphone and share the faithfulness of God and His unconditional love.

I am a closet perfectionist. Not long after I published Walking Shoes I began to get emails that said the story was good but all of the typos made it hard to read. I was mortified. Typos? How could that be? Three editors had poured over that book. Upon further investigation, I discovered that somehow during the formatting process the number 2 had been liberally sprinkled over the entire manuscript. In the end, all I could do was swallow my pride, admit I’d made a mistake, and offer to replace the glitchy manuscripts.

Better get started. It’s a lot of work.

Twenty-five years ago, the Slocum women buried their close mother-daughter relationship in the Frio River and went their separate ways. Sara and Charlotte pretend their weekly long-distance call fulfills their family obligation until Sara falls and breaks her hip. Now Charlotte must drop everything and fly to Texas. Charlotte’s short-term care-giving plans are dashed when she realizes her aging mother needs long-term care. While Sara struggles to regain her independence, Charlottegrapples with the impossible task of juggling a high-pressure job, a rebellious teenage daughter, and a slightly demented mother.

As usual, you’re being overly dramatic, Charlotte Ann.” I hug the phone receiver between my ear and shoulder, stretch the cord across the kitchen, then snag a butcher knife from the wooden block. “Putting a few dents in a lawnmower is hardly a reason for me to give up my ranch.”

“Mother, you totaled a two-thousand-dollar riding mower!” My daughter’s anger crackles on the line. “What if you’d been hurt?”

Contrary to Charlotte’s insinuations, I’m not some fragile, rusty weathervane easily spun by the changing winds that sweep through these Texas Hill Country valleys. As per the invariant order of things, my feet have become deeply rooted in the rocky soil. I’m attached to this land tighter than the fossils that cling to the banks of the Frio River.

For forty-two years, I’ve been the mother. Charlotte the child. Simple laws govern our parent-child relationship. I’ll admit, there are rules that allow for an orderly transition of power, if that sad time should ever come. But, I’ll not be pushed into speeding things along simply because it suits Charlotte.

Trading roles with my daughter now would be like winter unexpectedly giving way to fall.  Buds waiting to bloom would shrivel and die. There’d be no crops to harvest. Birds would never head north. Nothing would ever be right again. I know, because twenty-three years ago I was forced to go against the expected order of life. It was a tragedy that has ruined everything.

“Mother, did you hear me?” Somewhere in Charlotte’s aggravation, I hear the little girl I used to know, the one who sat beside me on the piano bench…frustrated that she was having difficulty mastering “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”…worried that she never would.

I shift the receiver and whack a Bartlett pear into tiny pieces. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back.”

“You know this is not about the money!” Charlotte barks.

“Then why did you bring it up?” I ignore my daughter’s huge sigh and slide a piece of fruit through the bars of my ringneck parrot’s cage. “Here you go, Polygon.”

My bird waddles his perch shouting, “God save the Queen.”

“Loyal and smart.” I say as I wiggle the pear enticingly. “You need more roughage in your diet, my feathered friend. Can’t have you getting backed up again.”

“Mother, could you please stop talking to that blasted bird and finish our conversation?”

Polygon hops off his perch, wraps his claws around my arthritic knuckle, and begins to peck at the fruit. Touch is the sensation of touch I miss more than conversation. Which is strange, considering the complaints I lodged with Martin when I felt worn out by the constant pawing of third graders. Guess that goes to show how easy it is to take something for granted until it’s gone.

I release the fruit and Polygon waddles toward his seed dish with a full mouth.  “At least my bird listens.”

Charlottesighs. “I bought the riding mower to help you. The doctor said the strain of pushing a mower over that huge yard is putting your heart at risk.” Her continued exasperation rattles me more than her exaggeration. “Obviously, power equipment isn’t the answer.”

“Anyone could’ve confused all those fancy pedals.”

“You’re seventy-two, Mother.” She always manages to cite my age before overstepping the boundaries we’ve set in place. “There’s no shame in admitting that you can no longer keep up with three hundred acres of rugged hill country.”

I wipe the window with the sleeve of my robe and gaze at the pasture dotted with patches of this spring’s fading bluebonnets. “No one was hurt.”

“This time.” The strain in her voice is as irritating as a mandatory fire drill.

“You want me to let the place grow up around my ears?”

“Of course not.” She sighs to emphasize the stress I’m obviously adding to her very busy day. “But since you refuse to consider a move, I have to hire you some help.”

I bite my tongue. Silence won’t end this conversation with Charlotte, but it won’t hurt her to believe it’s the only defense I have left.

“I’m worried about you, Mother.”

Charlotte’s deep inhalation is my cue to take a seat because the recounting of my shortcomings that she feels honor bound to recite has grown into a rather long list. “In the last six months, you’ve flushed your dentures down the toilet.”

“Just the lowers.”

“You got lost on the way to town.”

“Winnie found me and hauled me back home.” I add, “Long before dark.”

“I hate to think what would have happened if you hadn’t run out of gas along her mail route.”

Overstated dramatics always harden my resolve. Ask any child who was unlucky enough to have me as their teacher. “No law against trying a change of scenery.”

“You don’t like change, Mother,” my daughter snips. “That’s why we can’t seem to have an honest and productive conversation about your future.”

I sink into the chair and rest my elbow on the table. “Just because you think the old gray mare ain’t what she used to be…” I cringe at that I’ve resorted to using slang. “…that doesn’t mean I want to leave my home of forty-five years and move to Washington, D.C., Charlotte Ann.”

Surely it wasn’t that many years ago that Martin and I ignored a weathered No Trespassing sign, climbed an old, barbed-wire fence, shed our clothes, and jumped from a thirty-foot bluff with the abandon of two people with more nerve than sense. The moment our naked bodies slid into the crystal-clear water, we knew the Fossil Ridge Ranch was meant to be our little piece of heaven.

I’ve loved and lost on this land. I can’t bear to leave any of it.

“I know this is hard,” Charlottewhispers.

“How could you know? You only come home once a year.”

“Mother, that’s not true. I’ve flown to Texas four times since Thanksgiving. And if you don’t start cooperating, I’m going to have to come home in April as well.”

Without following the school calendar dates scramble in my head. “Four times?”

“Yes,” she says. “I have a job, a teenager, and a marriage I’m trying to keep together. I can’t keep dropping everything to…”

Her pause is my cue to say something that will soothe her conscience, to grant a pass that lets her off the hook. That’s been our unspoken agreement for twenty-some years. I don’t get a pass. She doesn’t get a pass. That way neither one of us has to forgive the other. Slocums are like that. Charlottemay have taken on that fancy McCandless surname when she married a good-for-nothing playboy, but roots deep as ours are tougher than weeds to yank out.

Charlotte’s quiet. But I can hear her ripping the tiny gold treble clef back and forth on the thin silver chain around her neck. She’s gearing up to issue my ultimatum. I suppose I should take some consolation in the fact that she still wears the little trinket I gave her years ago. Perhaps we’re not completely lost to each other.

“If you want to stay on the Fossil Ridge, then you’ll have to give this new guy a chance.”

“He’s already mowed over the bluebonnets in my front yard. They’re beautiful this year, but he cut them down before they could seed. Next thing you know, he’ll be toppin’ my myrtles.”

“I’ll text him to be more careful. Please, for my peace of mind, can you just give this new guy a try?” Charlotte’s breathing is becoming more rapid. Any minute she’ll blow, unable to leave well enough alone. “That’s all I ask.”

“That’s all?” Anger pumps through my veins and I spring from the chair, a taut rubber band aimed at the class bully. “If you call stripping my independence guarding my heart, Charlotte Ann, I’ll take my chances with high cholesterol and a push mower.”

I hang up the phone with a decisive slam and march to the counter. Sticky juice oozes from what remains of the mutilated mound of fruit.

Whatever happened to family taking care of family? My neighbor LaVera’s grown son takes care of her. Bo isn’t pressuring his mother to leave her place, nor does he pawn off his responsibilities on hired help.

I swallow a bite of the vanilla-sweet flesh then poke a sliver through the bars of the birdcage. “Charlottewon’t be satisfied until I sign over complete control of my life.”

My bird abandons his preening and snatches his breakfast with his bright red beak.

“Sweet Moses,” I snap. “Say something, Polygon!”

I know better than to encourage this feathered chatterbox to speak with his mouth full, but this traitorous deed by Charlotte has me in such a stew I’m willing to risk the undoing of my bird’s etiquette training.

For once, Polygon behaves and remains silent. Although pleased the hours I’ve invested in my parrot’s behavior has finally begun to pay off, I admit that at this very moment a word of encouragement, even a feathery nod would be a comfort. How many years has it been since I’ve had someone in my corner?

More than I care to count.

The screaming kettle gyrates above the gas flame. “We’ll show Charlottewho can still take care of themselves, won’t we, Polygon?”

I pour boiling water over a twice-used tea bag then wait for the water to brown. It’s maddening that my life has come to recycling tea bags. Martin and I had planned to spend our golden years spoiling a passel of grandchildren. I shuffle to the fridge. My gnarled finger traces the photograph that curls beneath the World’s Best Teacher magnet stuck to the door.

The little beauty sitting beside me and Charlotte is my only grandchild. Aria was eight when this photo was taken nearly five years ago. I haven’t seen this little lioness in months. Busy teenager stuff, her mother claims. But I can’t help but wonder if Ari has also outgrown her need for me. After all, she’s probably taller than me by now, and well-past the age of appreciating anything I could teach her. And I’d planned to teach her so much. Her times tables. Piano scales. How to tell a barn swallow from a sparrow. The best way to free a fossil from the limestone that lines the river.

Some dreams are best forgotten.

I return to my tea, splurge and add a cube of sugar, then lift the rose-patterned porcelain cup to my lips.

My apple-green bird tilts his head, his beady eyes assessing my brewing storm. I blow steam in his direction. “You won’t leave me, will you, Polygon?”

“C’mere.” He waddles the length of his perch. “Pretty girl.”

I rest the cup on a saucer and stick my finger through the wires and stroke the soft down above his beak. “If only family were as loyal.”

I’d give anything to have my Martin pat my fanny as I wash up the supper dishes. Or have my ambitious Caroline hug my neck after I admire her work. Or have my sweet Charlottecrawl into my lap and beg for another song on the piano.

“Thank you for sticking it out, Polygon.” Through tears, I look my bird in the eye.  “Once I send Charlotte’s new hire packing, we’ll have our life back.”

“Be nice.” Polygon gives my finger a peck.

“Traitor.” I recoil at his siding with Charlotte. “This has to be done, Polygon. And, no matter what anyone tries to tell me, I’m still the woman to do it.”

I love to hear from readers. Reach out to me at http://www.lynnegentry.com

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There’s a funny back story to this one. When I first became serious about writing for publication, you could not have gotten me to admit that I write romance. I wrote contemporary fiction. One day, I awoke to the truth. While I’m probably not a hopeless romantic, I love romance, and all of my stories are romance—even my contemporary fiction. I fell in to writing romantic suspense because although I can’t watch a suspenseful show when I don’t know what’s going to happen, I sure love being the one who knows what’s going to happen and scaring other people who don’t know what to expect.

This one’s going to be a little tricky to answer, so I’ll need to explain myself out of a corner for my oldest son. The happiest day of my life was the day that I gave birth to my second son. Now, that doesn’t mean that I love the oldest any less. I love them equally, but I think mothers can relate. That first birth—it’s a scary thing. You don’t know what to expect. And then when the child is born, you have all these things to learn. Well, I did anyway. During my second pregnancy, I wanted a girl. Oh, how I wanted a girl. When I began to have premature labor, I’d end up at the hospital, and on the last occasion, the nurse, listening to the baby’s heartbeat, asked if I wanted a boy or a girl. “A girl!” I said. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, honey. That’s a boy’s heartbeat.” Well, I wasn’t a happy camper. I didn’t want a boy. I wanted a girl. And then came the night that he was born. His father counted all his fingers and his toes, and I lay with my boy in my arms. A feeling of such peace fell over me. I’d never felt that before, and I haven’t had anything come close to it since. God knew that I’m equipped to handle boys, and I think that peace was due to the fact that God had blessed me with two wonderful sons.

When I was unpublished, I loved to write. But always, I had this pie-in-the-sky dream that it would change my life. You envision the myth of Rick Castle, that the contract is opening the door to a ritzy New York penthouse and notoriety, that Hollywood will be knocking on your door for a script of your New York TimesBestseller.

What’s funny, though, is that when none of that happened—I didn’t even get a small condo in Cedar Key, which was really my dream—I wasn’t too disappointed. Life went on as usual. I’ve learned how to promote, I’ve learned that promoting is the hardest thing I do as an author, but I’ve also learned that I’d write for free, because I love to weave a story. It’s just that simple.

I’m not only an author, I’m an editor. Most often I’m reading stories before they get published, but I did just finish a non-fiction book on how to teach a Bible study.

My current work in progress is a Christmas novel slated for an October 2019 release. The tentative title is A Room at the End. This, I’m hopeful, will be a new Holiday series set in a fictional Florida swamp town at the edge of the Everglades. Of course, there will be all kinds of quirky characters and a lot of Holidayromance.

Of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that my fourth book in The Ties that Bind series is Delilah,and it’s releasing in April.

Tahupoo, Tahiti. I have a story sitting in my brain and on three separate drafts on paper about professional surfing, and I want to attend the Billabong Pro.

My settings find me. My romantic series, The Ties that Bind, is actually the only series with real locations. That’s because two of the gals and one of the heroes were raised and attended school in my hometown. From there, they moved to Orlando. That series has some great unexpected scene locations, and not the theme parks. The setting for my Amazing Grace romantic suspense series is fictional, but anyone familiar with Western North Carolinacan’t help but recognize a combination of beautiful mountain towns. And my Serenity Key series is set on a fictional island that reminds me of the place I love so much—Cedar Key.

This isn’t for any political reason at all, but I’d like to be able to sit and talk with Donald J. Trump. I think there is a lot of depth in that man that he hides behind his official persona. I’ve never said this before, but there is something within me that knows without a doubt that one day I’m going to meet him. I don’t know if he’ll still be president. I don’t know if it will be this side of heaven, but I’m certain that I’m going to shake his hand and talk with him one day.

I'm a University of Florida Gator’s fan. When I say fan, I don’t just mean football. We’re football boosters, of course. We have my husband’s father’s seats that he first claimed in the mid-60s, and great seats they are. We’re also Gator Tennis boosters, and this year, I was able to talk my husband into season tickets for basketball, which is my favorite go-to-game college sport. Of course, my plan is to have so many events to attend in Gainesvillethat we have to move there. Shh, don’t tell my husband.

Time or the sense of being pushed against a clock is my greatest obstacle. I wrote for many years without a deadline because, well, I didn’t have a contract. I was blessed to have eight books in different stages of completion when I did receive a contract. Finishing them was easy. I don’t write well under deadline because I’m a finicky writer. You can’t say that my words are prose or literary-esque, but I do like to think that each word counts and tells a story that readers will remember. The irony, though, is that I also work best when I feel I’m being pushed against a clock.

Study the craft, work on the art of writing, and don’t seek a contract or self-publish until you know all the elements that go into good fiction.

Frozen Notes is the story of two people who lost their dreams. Lyric’s dreams were taken from her by Balaam who set off for stardom, abandoning her and their unborn child. Balaam’s dreams may have come true, but they nearly cost him his life. Now, Lyric’s life has become a nightmare, and Balaam must fight his own demons to save her from the danger his abandonment has caused.

The story is set in Western North Carolinaagainst a winter backdrop, and it is filled with twists and turns and a villain—to two—that the reader will never see coming.

Please give us the first page of the book.

A hush fell over the small crowd loitering outside Lyric Carter’s house as paramedics placed the bodies of the two men, both encased in body bags, onto separate gurneys and wheeled them to the waiting ambulances. Gun residue test completed, Lyric backed away from the woman who’d done the test on her and fell hard into the chair at her kitchen table near the opened front door. The winter chill seeped into the house.

She fought to keep her tears at bay while investigators plundered through her home looking for shell casings, additional bullet holes, and other evidence. A murder-suicide was pretty cut and dry. The investigators wouldn’t search for much else.

Her body lifted with her sobs. If her husband, Braedon, had only looked at the documents he couriered from Raleigh, he and Matthew Roberts would still be alive. He’d left them unopened on their table before a phone call sent him out, and he’d left her behind. Before Braedon had returned, Lyric hid the evidence where no one would find it, prepared to face Braedon’s wrath should it come to that.

“Which one do you think she’s crying over?” Joe Johnson from the Amazing Grace Gazette said from somewhere outside her home. She’d recognize his haughty voice anywhere. He wouldn’t be so close to her now if Braedon and Matthew were alive and not stretched out on the gurneys ... or if Balaam was here.

No. She stilled her thoughts. Braedon deserved more respect than that despite what he had done. Balaam had no place in her thoughts—not tonight—not ever.

The flashes of several cameras pulsated from outside and through her windows and doors. The blossoming migraine delivered pinpricks of pain behind Lyric’s eyes. She ran her tongue over the cut on her lip and felt the mass of swelling beneath the surface of her skin then wrapped her arms around her to stave off the cold.

A stomp at the front door announced a new arrival. Lyric turned in her chair and bit her lip to squelch a rising panic attack.

Sheriff Daniel Dixon pointed toward the newshound standing in her doorway then toward the street. Johnson ducked around the sheriff and scurried off behind the paramedics. Daniel moved around the crime scene, ignoring his investigators. He’d look in her direction soon enough. Could she bear up under his scrutiny?

Everything she’d struggled so hard to redeem or protect—her reputation, her son, her vulnerable heart—they were all in danger.

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Bio: Tim and Gail Sattler have been (happily) married for 40 tears, In that time, Gail has published 43 novels/novellas, and 6 works of non-fiction. Tim and Gail enjoy having recently become empty nesters, and this is their first co-written book.

Back cover blurb:

Michael wants to save his daughter, but first he’s got to save the world.

Michael and Charlotte meet when Michael is trying to find Ashley, his missing daughter who has fallen into drug abuse, and Charlotte is searching for her son Jon, a brilliant and aspiring young scientist who has also gone missing.

Ashley and Jon should have nothing in common, but after the murder of Jon’s favorite professor, they become ensnared in a tangled web that becomes worse with every new discovery.

When Michael and Charlotte join together to figure what their children have become involved with, they, too, are sucked into a sinkhole for which there are no answers, only more questions.
When all seems lost, will they all recognize the source of strength offered to them, and… will they take it?

Mercury Rising was actually my husband's idea. When I was working graveyard shift at my job and he was working from home, we would take our youngest son to school, then on the way home we would take the dogs and walk along the Alouette River dike path and talk.

Unfortunately no one took notes while we were walking, but we weren't in any rush, so it took almost the entire school year. Once we had the premise, we kept building the series of events, and at the end of the school year, we had a story with all the details. I always do a full outline when I write a book, so we were ready to go.

Rebecca Germany- she was the managing editor for Heartsong Presents when I first started writing, and she's a fantastic editor and a great person

Lena Nelson Dooley - Lena and I first started writing for Heartsong Presents at about the same time. She's a kind and gentle lady, and a great writer.

Colleen Coble - she's a great writer and a wonderful person

Jim Rubart - a great writer and a great guy.

Debbie Macomber - my favorite author, and she's written so very many books and she they never get old or repetitive.

Frank Piretti - he's a groundbreaking author, and I've met him in Portland at an OCW conference, and he's a nice guy

Marketing. When I first started writing, all I had to do was write the book. Now the author has to promote the book, and themselves. With the advent of Amazon, so many bookstores and publishers have shut down or dropped fiction, the market has changed so much. Unless you write a lot, and have time to market, it's hard to make a dent. Not only that, a lot of books are flooded into Amazon so it's hard not to get buried.

This is the story of two single parents Michael and Charlotte (one widowed, one divorced) and their adult children Ashley and Jon, who are in their last year of college and university. Jon's professor has been murdered and left specific instructions in the event of his death. Following cryptic clues, the answer must be found before it's too late … for humankind.

“Ashley, I’m home!” Michael pulled the door shut behind him.

He held his breath, hoping to hear some normal, homey stuff. Noise from a blaring television and the latest sitcom. Giggles from his college-aged daughter watching dumb videos on YouTube. Even the smell of a neglected supper starting to burn.

Instead, there was nothing.

He unlaced his work boots and tossed them onto the rubber mat. On the positive side, even though he didn’t smell supper cooking, he also didn’t smell the pungent odor of pot or the cloying stench of dollar store candles trying to hide it.

Michael headed straight toward Ashley’s bedroom, hoping to find her with headphones on and her music turned up full blast, oblivious to the outside world, but at home.

The wide open door told him she wasn’t.

Inside, clothes littered the floor. Makeup, lotions, and hair products lay askew, spread all over the dresser.

He sighed. On the rare days Ashley actually talked to him, he didn’t want to make things worse by nagging about her pigsty of a room. She shouldn’t need to be reminded to clean up after herself. She was technically an adult.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut. Ashley hated when he said it out loud, but regardless of her age, Ashley would always be his little girl.

A little girl who had fallen in with the wrong crowd, growing further and further away from him. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d sat together in the living room watching television and sharing a bowl of bad microwave popcorn.

“I guess I’ll just make supper for myself,” he announced to the teddy bear lying in the middle of the unmade bed then turned and headed for the kitchen.

Once there, a red light indicating a new message flashed on the telephone.

It wouldn’t be for him. It never was.

Michael pressed the button anyway.

Visit Gail Sattler's website at www.gailsattler.com

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When I was twelve, my family and I went to a denominational church. I remember going forward to profess my faith and was baptized in a cold, dirty baptismal. But I was so excited that I went to school the next day to share with my friends. They didn’t care. And life for me didn’t change.

When I went to college, at eighteen, I was already disillusioned with religion. My mom and I had changed churches, to a different denominational church. I heard the words but didn’t really have a relationship. Though I wanted one. I just didn’t know how.

I met my husband, and he showed me what it truly meant to lean into Jesus and make Him my best friend, to study the Word, and learn more. ’Cuz when you have a relationship with someone, you always want to learn more about them, have fellowship with them, and spend time together.

Oh, goodness. So many great authors that I would love to meet and hang with. But I’d have to say, if I could only have four that I would pull together some of the authors from the team I’ve worked with at InspyRomance—Valerie Comer, Elizabeth Maddrey, and Narelle Atkins. I think the fourth author would be ... oh, so many to choose from ... Ronie Kendig.

No. As of yet, God has not called me to take that step.

Oh, goodness. When my husband and I were dating, I had an “accident” and made a VERY large mess of my pants. I had to borrow a pair from his much smaller sister. All she had was a pair of sweats. Not fun. I’m pretty sure he took me home after that. I don’t remember.

Write it. The words don’t appear on paper by themselves. If you have a story to tell, tell it. No one else can say it like you can.

The Heart of Christmas is a novella collection born out of a random conversation at our local writers’ meeting. I mentioned how fun it would be if several of us got together and did a boxed set for Christmas. We played around with ideas, and here it is. We have taken a slightly irreverent look at The Nativity. Each of us, Bonita McCoy, Darcy Fornier, Leah Fornier, Janie Winsell and myself, chose an element–from the angels to the wise men–and wrote a story. Because we have one member who writes nonfiction, she wrote poems for each of the stories and one for the whole set.

The first page ... well, that would be a poem.

Our Savior is Born

There is a stillness in the night

A star above the midnight sky

Shone bright and steady over a manger

Joseph and Mary looked upon

A babe wrapped in swaddling clothes

Suddenly angels appeared out of nowhere

To give glory to our newborn Savior

Out of the east came magi from foreign lands

To pay Him homage

Gold, frankincense, and myrrh were bestowed

For the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords,

Jesus, the ultimate gift to the world.

~~ Betty Boyd

And then, the first story is mine, so this is what comes next.

Nothing seemed right.

Every song on the radio fell flat.

The twinkling Christmas lights she hung around her bakery lightened the room but darkened her mood.

Alone was not how anyone should spend Thanksgiving. But alone she was. Orphaned at twenty-three with no living relatives that she knew about. Every invitation she'd received for the holiday seemed as if they'd been given grudgingly. She'd rather be alone than pitied.

A knock sounded at the door.

"We're not open." Her yell bounced around the inside of the bakery.

"I know. Open the door, Jenna."

Thomas Hayes. The last person she wanted to see.

She stepped down from the ladder, leaving the last string of lights dangling from the hook, and opened the door. He looked good. Too good. He’d trimmed his strawberry-blond beard and mustache, and it made him looked distinguished and sexy. Her increased heart rate because of his appearance made her even more surly. "What do you need?"

"Mom sent me to get you for dinner. I was supposed to invite you but forgot."

"I've made other arrangements." She didn't lie. Her other

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