#Beyond: Diane Rinella

Enjoying San Francisco as a backdrop, the ghosts in Diane’s 150-year old Victorian home augment the chorus in her head. With insomnia as their catalyst, these voices have become multifarious characters that haunt her well into the sun’s crowning hours, refusing to let go until they have manipulated her into succumbing to their whims. Her experiences as an actress, business owner, artisan cake designer, software project manager, Internet radio disc jockey, vintage rock n’ roll journalist/fan girl, and lover of dark and quirky personalities influence her idiosyncratic writing.

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Who in your personal life was the biggest supporter of your writing?

My husband. Hands down. He will go out of his way to watch our daughter so that I can get time to work, even though he has projects of his own.

Do you prefer quiet or background noise when writing? If background noise, what?

It really depends. Sometimes what I am listening to will creep into the work, other times it is distracting, and sometimes I don’t notice it at all. I do like some kind of background noise. Listening to music that I like, but don’t know well enough to think about the lyrics, is generally best.

What is one thing you wish your readers could understand about the writing process?

This isn’t Castle. The words don’t plop down perfectly from the start. Anyone who thinks you can sit down and crank out a book has watched too much TV.

If your characters could come to life and be a real human, which one do you think you would get along with best and which one would drive you crazy first?

Roselyn, from Scary Modsters, and I would get along famously because we are soul sisters. However, I’d rather bring Donovan from Love’s Forbidden Flower to life, because he is so damn handsome and romantic. As for being driven crazy, Robert from Time’s Forbidden Flower would do the job quickly. There is a reason why some characters are minor and only exist for comic relief.

When did you start writing and what was your inspiration?

I’ve done it off and on all of my life, but one event really got me going. One chilly fall afternoon I curled up and watched an obscure counter culture film called The Buttercup Chain. In it, two cousins, related through identical twins—thus making them genetic half-siblings—have a strong attraction. She is fine with the situation while he is a huge ball of denial. The entire film I waited for the obvious to happen. When the film ended and the man was heartbroken I felt a huge opportunity had been squandered. Clearly they were soul mates, and never once did we find out why he was so freaked out by his emotions. All you could believe was that he hid from who he was because of society. What a horrible world we live in where love is wrong.

The sadness of the situation stayed with me, as did my anger at the author for not taking the story where it needed to go either by explaining the problem or by facing it. Upon doing research I discovered that there are so many biases toward the subject that I could not find a single book that really tackled it non-judgmentally. Yet the more I dug, the more common I found the real-life situation to be. The proverbial gloves came off and I started writing Love’s Forbidden Flower. What started as a story ended as a chalice in which I placed my heart, all the while asking why we make love laws. How we can tell others it is wrong to love, I will never understand.

Is there a genre or type of book that you love to read but could never write and if so why?

Suspense. I don’t think I could ever pull off freaking someone out that way.

Since you've been writing how much has the genre changed? Good, bad?

In all genres I am seeing more diversity in characters. It’s becoming less of a monotone world. I live in San Francisco, so I am used to seeing that on the street. I am glad that the literary world is catching up. I am just as guilty though.

Seeing more and more authors going the "self-pub' route. Thoughts?

Self-publishing is perfect for those who have stories to tell and want to tell them their way. For example, no publisher would touch Love’s Forbidden Flower because of the subject matter. If I had made the love interest the boy next door and not her brother, there would have been no problem. However, then the story would not have been what it was. Self-publishing was the only way to go.

How much thought do you as an author put into your cover, cover models etc. And has that changed since you started writing. If so, have you or will you go back and re-do covers you’re no longer pleased with?

I went out of my way to hire the perfect artists for Something To Dream On. She recreated the painting that is in the story perfectly. It, in itself, tells a story. That experience is making me want to redo all of my covers.

What is the most intense scene you have ever written? Did you find it difficult writing that scene?

Believe it or not, the love scenes in the Forbidden Flower books were far easier to write than the scene in Scary Modsters where Roselyn’s secret is discovered. There were so many layers to that scene, and it brought up a few issues with my past. There are three characters in there, and the points of view for two of them had layers of their own issues buried inside. While it was not my most intense scene, writing multiple points of view is tricky, especially when the characters have emotional baggage that come into play.

If you could write in any genre that you've never tried, what would it be and why?

Horror—like really suspenseful horror. I’d love to have the ability to make a person afraid to open a cabinet with just a few sentences!

When thinking about writing any specific genre, what triggers your fears and insecurities the most?

What is tear jerking to some is a soap opera to others. All you can do is write with your heart.

When writing, what comes first? The characters or the plot?

I have found that once I get the plot, the characters work their way around the drama. A lot of the fun I have with writing comes with the, let’s-see-how-she-reacts-to-this factor. To me, the plot is where the bulk of the hiccups hide. Once I can get what needs to happen when and to whom done, I can have fun with the quirks of the character. Plot always stresses me out, especially since I strive to be original.

Do you find that you write what you love to read? Or a different genre?

What I read depends on what grabs me at the moment. I’m always open to try a new genre.

Do you ever write your own personal fantasies into your books?

Any author who tells you he or she does not is likely hiding something!

How much if any of your story line comes from real life people or events.

Scary Modsters was heavily based on reality. Pretty much everything that happened to Peter before he became a ghost can be found in rock history books. That horrible stuff happened all the time. In Love’s Forbidden Flower, all those sucky dates Lily has reflect dates I had. Stuff in that book happened to real life couples that I know who have been in relationships with siblings. There is a lot of truth in fiction.

How many times do you read what you wrote and think "where the hell did that come from?!"

Any time I read my second draft. Sometimes I wonder who came in and changed it. I’m pretty sure that my house is haunted.

Do you have to look at the keys when you type?

No, I just look through the soul of the person I am thinking of. Right now that is Crystal.

How much wood would a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood?

A butt load.

What are you two favorite 80’s movies?

I was too stoned to pay attention.

Why are man-hole covers round?

Because man part are tubular and you can’t stick a square peg into a round hole.

If a painting in the home of your perfect man reflects your dreams of doom, do you run, or do you dare to embrace love?

While Lizetta lives a life of compassion, childhood bullying over a few extra pounds have caused this sparky woman to lose sight of the beauty of her soul. Jensen’s recent past is filled with substance abuse, shady morals, and loose women. A brutal wake up call forced him to find his way back to the gentle soul he once was; however, there are some whose futures depend on the return of the demon.

Souls can heal, but how long can they fight the forces that seek to destroy them? If one of those forces is the person who shattered your self-image, and she is determined to take down the one you love, could you still believe that everyone deserves a second chance?

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  *** Please note: This is a New Adult Romance novel involving two siblings who struggle with their emotions. This is not a work of erotica.***

The heart cares not what society forbids.

Lily nurtures a secret love for a flawless man—the one who is her soul mate. Donovan is gorgeous, charismatic, and delights in all of Lily’s talents and quirks. Their innate knowledge of each other is almost telepathic. Together they interlock like fine threads creating luxurious silk.

But society dictates this picture-perfect adoration is the ghastliest of all possibilities.

As Lily embarks on a quest for the romance the heavens intended, her suitor turns reluctant. Desperate to uncover why Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hiding decayed from a tender-hearted gentleman into a ferociously self-serving, cocky bastard, Lily is prepared for battle when it comes to the salvation of her soul mate. However, Donovan traps Lily in a mental game of chess, leaving her to question his sanity. When Lily’s revelations about Donovan’s destructive alter ego lead to an inconceivable truth, can she help Donovan survive fate’s cruel joke?

Impassioned, witty, and deeply moving, Love’s Forbidden Flower is filled with stunning controversies that will forever haunt your heart.

Click here to read Chapter 1! 

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   A fantastical romance involving a girl, the music that fuels her, and her Ouija board.

Rosalyn possesses a sunny personality that is laced with quirks. Although she seeks acceptance in a world where she lives out of time, what she gets is ridiculed for her eclectic wardrobe and unconventional music collection.

One fateful night, Rosalyn bewitches Niles, a stylish man whose offbeat character perfectly complements her own. Unfortunately, he possesses a critical flaw that means relationship suicide for him and pretty much anyone.

While under the influence of insomnia-impaired judgment, Rosalyn summons Rock ‘n Roll deity Peter Lane back from the dead. Not only does he spin her hormones into a frenzy, Peter is also the precarious puzzle piece that brings sense into her world. When Niles learns that he can overcome his life-long challenge by helping Peter avenge his death, how far will he go to secure Rosalyn’s heart?

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   An eternity of passion cannot be quelled by society. 

Once upon a time Donovan assured Lily all of her dreams would come true. But how could he keep the promise of a fairy tale when her truest goals could not involve him, though her deepest desires did? Now, Lily has it all—love, passion, a family, and the career of her dreams—with Christopher. But something is lacking. She and Donovan have spent the last ten years living apart, and the soul mates are eager to reunite. Can Donovan keep his promise to give Lily all she desires, even with Christopher in the way?  

For Lily and Donovan, the past is a mirror to the future that cannot be shattered.  

Donovan is convinced Lily has been his love for all eternity. Determined to unravel the past, they embark on a journey to discover where it all began. For centuries Donovan has stolen Lily’s heart while forced to suffer for his love. How much can a soul endure before the breaking point is reached and a monster emerges? Can the demons of the past be combated to pave the way for happiness in the next life? Or has the abuse suffered in this life already turned Donovan hell bound? Time and again, one woman has destroyed their happiness. It’s time to silence her once and for all.

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Idle Bloom Tour Stop!

 "What lies beneath my veiled perfection is the ugly truth—my truth, my reality, my destiny."

Vivian Graham has an acceptance letter into Harvard, a badass tattoo, loyal friends, ties to marijuana, a penchant for Dunkin’ Donuts, and her pesky V-card.

Everyday she takes the Red Line to her job at The Green Pot in Boston while her friends enter the coveted, black iron gates to higher learning. The ramifications from a tragic accident have put her life on hold while time marches on for everyone around her.

After graduating from Harvard Law, Boston native, Oliver Konrad, moves to Portland to start his career and his life. Three years later, after a horrific discovery, he returns home to trade in his three-piece suit for leather work boots and his suburban home for a condo in Cambridge.

All he brought back to the East Coast was an aversion to pillows and secrets he keeps hidden behind a mysterious locked door. Oliver’s days are predictable and his nights are lonely until he meets Vivian on the subway. Her long raven hair, green eyes, and mile-long legs are achingly sexy, but the way she "innocently" fingers and licks her Boston Kreme doughnut can only be described in two words—complete torture.

When their paths cross at every turn, laughter is abundant, friendship is easy, and love is unintentional. However, their future seems improbable.

*This book contains adult situations and explicit content, 17+

 

Once in a great while, you stumble upon a book by an author you have never heard of and find yourself completely and utterly charmed by their story and writing.  Idle Bloom was a complete surprise for me.  I laughed, I cried…l wanted a doughnut after I was done.

Vivian is a landscape nursery assistant.  She had to put off her dreams of going to Harvard to pay off some medical bills, and that’s how she ends up at the Green Pot, where she meets Oliver.  Oliver is a graduate of Harvard Law, but mysteriously left the west coast and the law behind to become a handyman at his brother’s landscaping business.  Neither is looking for more than friendship, but what soon develops between them that alters their lives forever.

There’s a lot to be intrigued about by this book.  Why is Vivian a 20-something virgin?  Why did Oliver come back from Portland? Why doesn’t he like pillows?  Vivian and Oliver are an odd pair, but odd in such a way that I had to know their entire story, which made it hard to put this book down.  You get little snippets throughout the book as to why they have become the way they have, and you just won’t be satisfied until you know it all.  I was mesmerized and completely enchanted by this story.

The characters in this book are intricately written and completely adorable.  I loved Vivian’s spunk and wit, and her unabashed love of Dunkin’ Donuts.  And Oliver is such a mystery, but also absolutely loveable and real.  This book made me cry, which is a tough sell, but it happened.  You’ll want to have tissues handy, but don’t let this deter you from reading a beautifully told and well written story that will stay with you. 5 stars.

I do not say this lightly, but Idle Bloom has got to be one of the best books I have read this year. It’s a beautiful love story between two broken people who finally get a chance to heal with one another’s love. As I expected, I definitely shed quite a few tears several times. What I did not expect was how much I laughed while reading the book because it’s not a romantic comedy; rather, Vivian and Oliver have fun and laugh with one another and their laughter is contagious. This emotional rollercoaster ride made for an immensely enjoyable reading experience.

Both Viv and Oli have baggage from their past. While some of Viv’s baggage is visible, she reveals her internal baggage to Oli early on in their relationship. Upon hearing the circumstances surrounding her tragic accident I felt a mixture of relief (that it wasn’t due to a sexual assault) and sadness (because of the actual incident and how it scarred her). While I may have had mixed feelings surrounding her accident I had no doubts regarding how I felt about her and Oli’s relationship – it was beautiful. Even when it was painful or hurtful, their love was beautiful and watching it grow and deepen as they faced far more obstacles than they should have was an experience I look forward to repeating when I read Idle Bloom again. Equally enjoyable was the freaking hot sex they had … frequently … and thoroughly. It and their laughter helped to balance out the overwhelmingly sad circumstances that were the cause of Oli being broken. It has been quite a while since I have felt such sympathy for a character in a book. Oli’s loss was devastating and I found it very easy to understand his reactions. Although both of their pasts are unbelievably sad, I loved the realism with which Ms. Ann wrote them.

I must admit that as the end of the book neared, I questioned whether or not Oli and Viv would get their happily ever after. There was so much that hadn’t been said or done and I found myself running out of pages with no resolution in sight. Yet Ms. Ann did the unthinkable – she gave Oli and Viv’s story an absolutely perfect ending for them and did so without making it feel rushed or contrived. The author maintained the realism of the characters and managed to leave me wishing this book was the first in a series instead of a standalone so I could have more time with Oli and Viv. Idle Bloom is an excellent book that has secured its spot on my re-read list and I cannot wait to check out more of Ms. Ann’s books.

Copyright 2014

CHAPTER ONE

Ivy League Doughnuts

Vivian

Wake. Stretch. Shower. Then navigate through the bustling morning crowd to the subway via the corner coffee shop. A kaleidoscope of colors and the inviting bittersweet aroma of America’s favorite pick-me-up dazzles my senses.

No offense to Paul Revere, but when I think of Boston and its exhausting list of historical figures, William Rosenberg is the name that warms my chest and tempts my tummy. It’s my firm belief that his inspiration and influence in the business world fed my ambition to achieve the high merits that earned my acceptance into a well-known university north of the Charles River.

“Boston Kreme and a medium Dunkaccino, please.”

I ignore the piercing glances, rolling eyes, and subtle head shakes behind me. Yes, at five foot eleven inches I can eat whatever I want and not gain a pound. Long, wavy, ink black hair and green eyes, a runway model on the outside. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before. My personal assessment of the reflection in my mirror includes the words lanky, bony, witchy hair, monster eyes, and freaky freckles. A tiny grin tugs at the corners of my mouth as I focus on my phone, moving my thumbs over the screen with effortless strokes to send off a text.

Me: Up, bitches? 2 hrs. to study then get your asses to work. The real world awaits.

Judgments are nothing more than presumptuous thoughts, flawed opinions at best. What lies beneath my veiled “perfection” is the ugly truth––my truth, my reality, my destiny. Though, for now, I grab my decadent treats and sashay out the door with a wicked smile.

Two years after I nailed the admissions interview, I have yet to see the inside of a Harvard lecture hall, but it won’t be long now. Instead, I take the Red Line at Harvard Square to Central Square every morning while my two bitches enter the coveted black iron gates to “Grow In Wisdom.” Since my hopes of love and marriage were snuffed out like a torch my senior year of high school, I have my whole life to focus on becoming a successful entrepreneur.

The air grows thick and musty on my final descent to the subway. And then I see him, my new visual indulgence. He first captured my attention a week ago. A sky scraper among the diverse sea of heads bowed and drawn into their handheld technological gods. But then again, when you’re my height the bar for being considered tall is set pretty high. He must be at least six foot four with lean muscles, short sandy blond hair, and cornflower blue eyes. Sipping my Dunkaccino, I peek over the lid and worm my way through the morning crowd, positioning myself to get on the same car. Everyday he’s dressed in faded jeans, an old T-shirt, and leather work boots. Maybe he’s married, or has a girlfriend, but it doesn’t matter. My infatuation will go no further than basking in his sexy aura and taking mental pictures to use for my own pleasure.

The train screeches to a stop and the whoosh of the hydraulic doors sets the crowd in motion. Most mornings I find a seat opposite my rugged blue-collar worker. We play a flirty game of peek-a-boo where I unabashedly stare at him until he glances at me then diverts his shy eyes, taking a deep swallow. I eat my Boston Kreme doughnut and sip my coffee keeping my eyes fixed on him. Click, click, click—I take my mental pictures.

This morning, however, the car is herded to capacity. I find myself next to him with my drink in one hand and my doughnut in the other. As the rest of the passengers cram in, I glance up and smile. He returns a hesitant smile, and for the first time I can see his straight white teeth and dimples. Holy crap! He has dimples. My heart rate increases exponentially as I lift my doughnut toward my mouth. Dimples! The doors fold shut and the train jerks forward before my legs have a chance to balance and root into the floor.

“Oh shit! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” I’m drowning in horrid humiliation while peeling my half-eaten doughnut off his gray T-shirt. I can’t look at him.

Through my squinted eyes, all I see is a smeared glob of chocolate frosting in the middle of his shirt. Risking a glance, a grimace takes over my face while meeting his raised brows, eyes darting back and forth between me and his shirt. Depositing the doughnut back in the bag, I retrieve the wad of napkins I shoved in my purse and begin to wipe his shirt like a mother would do to a child. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t move. My brain registers the faint giggles and snickers from a few of the lucky commuters who have witnessed this embarrassing mishap. I may have to start taking the bus from now on, or dress incognito so I’m not recognized as the clumsy doughnut girl.

“It’s fine,” a deep voice sounds. Long fingers encircle my wrist, halting my frantic strokes. “It’s just a shirt.”

Biting my lips together, I nod unable to make eye contact. He releases my wrist and I shove the napkins into my bag.

“I, uh … I’m just so, very clumsy … embarrassed, and uh, again … sorry.” I. Will. Not. Move. I shall stay bowed in shame until I leap from the train at the next opportunity.

“It’s really okay, no need to feel bad.”

“Central Square,” the speaker sounds as the train’s piercing brakes pull to a halt.

My frantic dash to the door threatens to take out a few unsuspecting passengers. I can’t concern myself with that; sometimes casualties are unavoidable and necessary.

“Is this your stop?” Mr. Frosting Shirt says with a questioning tone, probably because for the past week he’s gotten off the train before me.

It is today!

Without looking back I nod and sprint off the subway.

#

Lucky for me, when the white sign with the green planter’s pot becomes visible over the hill, there isn’t a line of miffed people waiting under it to get in the door.

“Maggie, I’m so sorry,” I say with a genuine apologetic tone as I shove my bag under the counter and tie on my green apron over my fitted T-shirt and frayed denim shorts. “I had to take the bus and walk the last mile.”

“Vivian, dear, why are you apologizing? I told you to take the day off anyway.” Maggie shakes her head while arranging the packs of seedlings into cardboard flats.

I take over while she rings the customer’s order up on the register. “I know, but this is the busiest time of year and who knows if or when Alex and Kai will show up to help.”

Maggie, proud owner of The Green Pot nursery, originally started her business as a front for growing marijuana. She’s not a law-breaking pothead, per say. She’s a ten-year cervical cancer survivor. 

“You don’t see me looking too concerned do you?”

I laugh. Maggie has saintly patience and I love working for her. The Green Pot has become a legitimate greenhouse—one of the top suppliers for local landscaping companies—but she still has a stash of wacky tabbacky for those who don’t want to jump through the hoops to get it legally. Her only request is that these VIP customers don’t all come on the same day with their scarf and bandana wrapped heads asking for the Brown Bag special.

“Chance should be here soon if you want to go out back and double check to see if his order is all there.”

Ah, Chance Konrad, the horny green jack-of-all-trades owner of The Handy Hunk. Chance is a real player and, in his eyes, I am the World Series of his playboy game. For two years he has tried to sweep me off my feet and into his bed. For two years I have rejected his often times outrageous efforts to win my affection.

The familiar red flatbed truck backs into the loading zone as I finish double checking the order. “Vivian.” Chance’s velvety voice caresses my name as he strips me with his usual lustful gaze.

I give him the eye roll he’s come to expect while shaking my head. “Chance.”

I’m not naive enough to think that he has been waiting in patient celibacy for me to succumb to his advances. In fact, I can’t imagine him going a single night without some gullible girl’s naked body wrapped around his. Not that I too don’t find him physically appealing, but I’ve resigned myself to believe that all my orgasms will be self-induced. Chance is eye candy, another visual for my private moments. Click. Click. Click.

“Hate to disappoint you, I know how much you look forward to our sexy banter, but my brother is working with me now so you’ll need to use a little more discretion with your advances,” Chance says as he leans against the back of his truck with his arms folded over his chest.

Uncontrolled laughter erupts from my chest but halts in my throat, nearly choking me, as the other door to the truck opens and a very tall guy steps out with a chocolate stain stamped in the middle of his gray T-shirt.

Kill. Me. Now!

“Viv, this is my brother Oliver. Don’t mind his shirt. Some chick on the subway rammed into him with her doughnut.”

My eyes are so wide I think they’re locked in this position. “That uh, really sucks. She must have felt awful.”

“Yeah, what did you say?” Chance looks at Oliver. “That she scurried off at the next stop with her tail between her legs?” Chance laughs.

Oliver grimaces, glancing at me. “I don’t think that’s exactly what I said.”

“Yeah, bro, it was. You also said––”

“I’m sure she gets the point!”

I nod and cross my arms over my chest. “Oliver’s right. I get it. I can totally imagine it. But I’m sure she didn’t run off with her tail between her legs. It was probably just her stop.” I give Oliver a tightlipped grin and offer my hand. “Anyway, Vivian Graham, nice to meet you.”

Oliver stares at my hand for a few moments then meets my eyes. “Nice to meet you, Vivian.” We shake hands and my grip cinches to convey my unspoken displeasure with his interpretation of what happened this morning.

“Mind if I use the restroom before we load up and head out?” Chance asks, not waiting for my response before he heads into the building.

Oliver and I divert our gazes away from each other as an awkward silence closes in on us. I glance at his shirt and an uncontrollable giggle bubbles up and out.

“What are the chances?” I laugh, shaking my head and meeting his gaze.

He grins and chuckles.

“I really am sorry. I’ll get you a new shirt.”

Wiping his hand over the dried chocolate stain, he licks his lips and smiles so big his dimples steal my attention. “Not necessary. It will probably come out and if not, I’m quite certain I have at least twenty other old T-shirts just like it.”

“Load ’em up!” Chance emerges from the building as we slip on our work gloves and start arranging the plants into the back of the truck.

When everything is loaded and secured, Chance hops in the truck, starts the engine, and rolls down the window. “Let’s go, Oliver, no need to flirt with my girl. After two years of rejecting yours truly, I’m pretty sure she’s a lesbian. And for some reason that makes my dick even harder.”

Oliver closes his eyes and shakes his head as I laugh. “Please excuse my vulgar brother. He doesn’t have a delay button between his brain and mouth.”

I wave a dismissive hand. “I’ve been putting up with him for two years. His potty mouth is the highlight of my lesbian day.”

Oliver furrows his brow with a slow nod. “All right then, I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Later, guys.” I hand the order receipt to Oliver with a wink and walk away to check on Maggie.

#

Oliver

“Now I know why you’re taking on so many landscaping jobs instead of sticking to mowing and home repair.” I flash Chance a knowing glance.

“She’s hot as hell, isn’t she?” He grins, pulling out of the back parking lot.

I shake my head. “It’s been two years. I think it’s safe to say she’s not interested.”

He lifts his shoulders. “She’s baiting me, slowly reeling me in.”

“She’s stamped rejection on your head so many times you have brain damage and can no longer see you make her skin crawl with your dick talking out of your mouth.”

“She’s a nice girl. We have a good thing going. Didn’t you notice how she defended the doughnut chick from this morning?”

“Shit.” I laugh and run my hands though my hair. “She is the doughnut chick from this morning, dickhead.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I roll down my window and pull my Red Sox baseball cap on. “Vivian was the one on the subway who fell into me with her doughnut. Thanks to you, now I look like a real asshole because you had to run your mouth about the whole tail between the legs comment.”

Chance laughs. “Damn, you lucky son of a bitch! I should start taking the T. I’m probably missing out on a huge untapped population of hot women. They’re wasting their time bumping into you, the one guy who won’t ever give them the time of day.”

I sigh. “You’re right. I couldn’t care less.”

#

At the chance of risking what’s left of my manhood to some philosophical bullshit, I have to admit that digging in the dirt and being in the sun all day is somewhat therapeutic. I can’t help but mentally pat myself on the back for coming to that conclusion without the help of a psychiatrist. Lord knows in an effort to save one hundred and forty dollars an hour, I can ask myself how I’m feeling and why I think I’m feeling it with less resentment than I felt from those damn therapists in Portland.

We’re adding raised-bed gardens to a hotel in the Seaport district so they can use the fresh vegetables and herbs in their restaurant. Just one of a million reasons I love this town.

“Wanna go out tonight?” Chance asks while mixing the compost into the soil.

“Nope.”

“Tara is going to bring her sister. We’re going to some new Italian place by the wharf then to Mike’s for Cannoli.”

“Who’s Tara?” I sit back on my heels and wipe the sweat from my brow with the bottom of my chocolate-stained shirt.

“The girl I took to Mom’s birthday dinner.”

“Not interested.”

“Oliver, you need to get out.”

“You don’t know what I need and I told you never to mention a fucking second of my past!”

“Jeez, dude! I’m not talking about your past. I’m talking about now! Nothing more than dinner with a pretty woman. She just graduated from MIT and she’s brilliant. A nerdy scholar like yourself. It’s okay to let a nice piece of ass make your dick twitch every once in awhile. Gives your hand a break.”

“Bite me!”

“Nobody says that anymore, but whatever, your loss.”

I hate that he’s right, but I’d rather gnaw off my own arm than admit it out loud.

“Sorry, Chance, I’m just … shit, I’m just not ready. I’m not saying never, just not now.”

He pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, Bro.”

With a deep sigh, I close my eyes and try to shake the image of the one person who does make my dick twitch. And when that fails, I decide to call it a day. It doesn’t appear that my hand will be getting a rest anytime soon.

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I’ve been back for two months settling into my new life. I feel like a zombie most of the time. Food lacks taste, I see the sun but I can’t feel it touch my skin, comedy is void of humor, and the monotonous play of life in all its muted colors doesn’t catch my eye. At least that was the case until last week when I started working with my brother.

Living in Cambridge, I take the Red Line to South Station. Every morning for the past week, I’ve sat across from this long-legged woman with raven hair falling in unruly waves around her slender shoulders and down her back. Soft green eyes peek through sexy long lashes, casting a spell on me, and I’ve found myself locked in a trance watching her eat her cream filled doughnut with chocolate frosting. She makes a complete mess of it, and by the time she’s done every guy in the subway car is sporting a boner from watching her lick her full lips and suck the sticky sweetness off her long fingers one at a time like a fucking Dunkin’ Donuts porn movie.

So now the only thing I smell is a mixture of coffee and doughnuts. I can taste sweet cherry red lips that I will never kiss. It’s absurd I’m so fucking enthralled with her just the thought of the subway elicits a pathetic schmuck grin, and the vision of her lingers like a drunken haze even when I close my eyes. But most disturbing is the part of my body she awakens that I swore I’d never use again.

I’m so screwed.

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Jewel is a free-spirited romance junkie with a quirky sense of humor.

With 10 years of flossing lectures under her belt, she took early retirement from her dental hygiene career to stay home with her three awesome boys and manage the family business.

After her best friend of nearly 30 years suggested a few books from the Contemporary Romance genre, Jewel was hooked. Devouring two and three books a week but still craving more, she decided to practice sustainable reading, AKA writing.

When she’s not donning her cape and saving the planet one tree at a time, she enjoys yoga with friends, good food with family, rock climbing with her kids, watching How I Met Your Mother reruns, and of course…heart-wrenching, tear-jerking, panty-scorching novels.

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