Background of THE STARLIGHT MOTEL by Amy Craig – Guest Blog and Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Amy Craig will be awarding a $15 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Background of THE STARLIGHT MOTEL

I live in Louisiana, but I’m a Northern California girl at heart. I frequently read Bay Area online news sites for restaurant trends, wildfire updates, and changes to the cities where I lived. Maybe I’ll go back one day for more than a visit!

A few years ago, a news story about a San Francisco mural caught my eye. The 455 Hyde Street murals, collectively known as Le Papillon, tell the story of San Francisco’s urban beauties. On two walls, monarchs fly toward the state flower, the California Poppy. I almost bought a plane ticket to see the vibrant murals while their colors were sharpest, but economic realities prevailed.

Disclaimer… My social posts feature a lot of monarch butterflies and weary children tired of planting tropical milkweed and relocating rogue chrysalises. Did you know butterfly wings fade as the insect ages? Just to be clear, my social media posts have plenty of sexy abs, but you can see how a butterfly mural caught my eye!

As I learned more about Le Papillon, Kada, the main character in THE STARLIGHT MOTEL, came into focus. Kada’s a muralist with a brilliant career. When a crowdfunding stalls her career, she helps her family run a Palm Springs motel. The question is, why does she love it?

One answer might lie in her art and the reasons she paints. In THE STARLIGHT MOTEL, and in other literature, muralists are integral members of their communities. They collaborate with local residents, incorporate community stories into art, and use murals to foster belonging and unity. This portrayal highlights art’s communal nature and its potential to bring people together. Running a motel is a lot like being the mayor of a small community, but most constituents don’t ring their elected officials and ask for additional toilet paper. If she can’t find a way to paint, she’s still a caregiver.

Muralists make great fictional characters (“The Murals” by William Bayer, “The Lacuna” by Barbara Kingsolver, or “Shadowshaper” by Daniel José Older) because they often undergo significant personal growth. As they create their murals, they confront personal challenges, heal from past traumas, or discover new facets of themselves. This process of creation and self-discovery makes their journeys deeply relatable and inspiring. Unfortunately, painting a mural takes longer than we have in contemporary romances. Baby, we’re falling in love in a week, not eighteen months!

Experienced muralist Kada took charge of her family’s Palm Springs motel to give her mother time to grieve. As a grant deadline approaches, Kada must convince her mother to manage the motel so she can return to her art. Late in December, Kada encounters a horseman approaching the property. Dane, the reserved son of a local farming family, is a loyal workaholic with limited spare time or experience outside the valley. When lightning startles his horse, he lingers at the motel and stirs up Kada’s emotions about leaving the desert oasis. Wary of mixing business with pleasure, she struggles with her attraction. As New Year’s Eve approaches, will the cowboy convince her to chart a new course?

Enjoy an Excerpt

“I’m Dane Palmer,” the man on the chestnut horse said. “My family owns the land next door.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” She shaded her gaze. “I’ve heard about you.”

For as long as her family owned the motel, the Palmer family owned the surrounding farmland. Once or twice, the Palmer patriarch offered to buy the Starlight Motel, but Pops resisted and counted the family as friends. They produced the area’s top vegetable crops, cultivated table grapes, and managed fields of fruit trees. Every once in a while, Dane’s mother, Mariah, came by the motel to visit and give her business advice, but Dane and his younger brother remained enigmas. She exhaled. “I’ve met your mother.”

“I’m sure,” Dane said. “She gets around.”

The second man laughed like a rusted pail swinging in the wind.

Dane glanced at the seated cowboy. “This is Walter. He’s the farm’s crew manager.”

Tipping his hat, Walter nodded.

She tented her gaze. “Could you two get down? Between the horses and the low sun, I can’t see you to save my life.”

Hanging his hat on the saddle horn, Dane handed his horse’s reins to Walter. He threw his leg over the horse’s saddle and slid down its side with an easy, athletic grace.

Standing, he was six feet tall, long, rangy, and reserved. He wore boots, jeans, a dark shirt, and a fleece-lined leather jacket that beat back the wind. A hat had smashed his sun-kissed brown hair against his forehead, but he wiped away the mess, cocked his head, and held out his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said.

About the Author: Amy Craig lives in Louisiana with her family and a small menagerie of pets. She writes contemporary romance and romantic suspense featuring intelligent heroines. In her spare time, she plays tennis and expands her husband’s honey-do list. Before writing, she worked as an oilfield engineer, project manager, and incompetent waitress. For more information and giveaways, visit www.amy-craig.com or follow her on social media channels.

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Remaking a Man by Amy Craig – Spotlight and Giveaway

Long and Short Reviews welcomes Amy Craig, who is celebrating the upcoming release of Remaking a Man, the second book in the Sun Valley Mafia series. Enter for the chance to win a $50.00 First for Romance Gift Card! Competition hosted by Totally Entwined Group.

A one-night stand turns serious…

Nina’s neighbor sets her up on a blind date with a handsome insurance salesman. After a candlelit dinner, Nina hooks up with him in a posh New York hotel room, but she writes off the date as a one-night stand. Returning home, she discovers her neighbor’s death, her dog’s abduction and the salesman’s possible involvement.

Traipsing across the city with her date in tow, she realizes he’s a quarrelsome billionaire and that her dog may never return. Grieving her losses, she accompanies her date to a ‘billionaire summer camp’ in Sun Valley, Idaho, but the idyllic setting revolves around his whims—and the person who took her dog follows them.

Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of violence and murder.

Enjoy an Excerpt

Standing on the marble front step of her family’s Miami mansion, Gisella tapped her designer footwear, adjusted her sunglasses and blocked out the bright spring day. She breathed deeply and shuffled the bags hanging from her toned arms.

At the end of the driveway, her brother Antonio revved his red convertible’s souped-up engine and pounded the dashboard in time to blaring rock music. Miami traffic streamed past the estate. People stared.

Why can’t he just leave? She marveled at his arrogance, but she kept her expression neutral and her phone in her pocket. He was the youngest of her two siblings, and he had the stocky, tan physique her male family members prized. He also had a propensity to wear outlandish suits, a revolving door of girlfriends and a sophomoric sense of humor. If he caught her taking a selfie in front of the house, he would turn it into a meme, but her account depended on dance stills and teasing hints of glamour. The minute he left the estate, she would take the picture while her hair looked good.

Flexing her toes, she rifled through the bags on her arms. One duffle held her ballet kit, another tote functioned as a purse and the bags from her morning shopping spree hiked her credit card bill. Instead of feeling guilty for the extravagance, she admired her long, lean legs.

Her form allowed her to excel as a professional ballerina, but she worried she had the coltish naivety to match her legs. When would she work up the nerve to demand a driver’s license and stop relying on Antonio for transportation? Every time she talked about her license, her father pouted and asked what more he could do to ensure her comfort.

If her mother had lived, Gisella’s life might be so different.

A car horn honked. A woman blew kisses. “Antonio!!”

He ignored the entreaty, let the engine rumble and scanned the beachside traffic. His muscled forearm hung over the door, and he tapped his fingers against the expensive paint job. Milky fingerprints marred the convertible’s finish.

A second Miami driver slowed to gawk at the handsome, moneyed mobster. A trailing car smashed the vehicle’s lights. Horns blared and doors flew open.

Releasing the engine’s pent-up energy, Antonio took advantage of the distraction and roared across two lanes of traffic.

Gisella rolled her eyes and snapped the picture she needed, but she doubted her high-gloss smile was worth the price of the photograph.

Riding home with her brother from dance rehearsals and a shopping spree, she had stared out of the window and listened to him complain about women and their fickle ways. His problems never changed, but the consistency soothed her. If he spent more time listening to the women, he would have fewer problems with them.

For instance, she had wanted to close her eyes and rest, but Antonio couldn’t take a hint. As soon as she made Principal Dancer, she could move out of her father’s house and make rent, but she would have to stop shopping like a mafia princess.

Squaring her shoulders, she faced her father’s front door. Most Miami residents painted their doors to ward off humidity’s warping effects. Papà imported Cocobolo heartwood and exposed the precious wood to the elements. His house could grace the cover of Architectural Digest, but his acceptance in local society depended on discretion. Biscayne Bay would freeze over before he opened the mansion’s doors to gawking strangers.

Every piece of furniture came with a decorator’s commission, authenticity papers and a cataloged serial number. The insurance company knew the exact cost of her father’s investment, and if the house burned, they’d be wise to pay up.

She appreciated the wealth, but its origins bothered her. Her sweet Papà, Gregorio Vitella, ran drugs from South America up the Eastern shoreline. She feared that enjoying the proceeds made her complicit in his crimes.

Pressed by a tipsy ballet friend, she’d admitted the concession that let her sleep at night. Her father’s legitimate insurance company probably covered her bills, but how could a person separate good money from bad people—and where did that distinction place her?

Pushing open the door, she scanned the marble foyer and dropped her bags, but a green potted palm, a black concert piano and an excruciatingly expensive console table provided little company. The console table rested on acrobatic loops of brass. Beneath a glass top, python skin gleamed with a subtle sheen, and she wondered if the piece’s black crystal pulls would make an interesting jewelry set. Opening a drawer, she checked for mail and flipped through the family correspondence. “Come stai, Papà?”

Her question echoed.

Raising her head, she set down the mail and waited.

A hidden white paneled door opened. Martin, the butler, emerged, wearing the formal black suit and crisp white shirt required for his service. He’d perfected the practiced, subservient gaze on his own. She’d grown to like him, but she wondered how long he would last in the household.

“Signorina Gisella, your father is in his study.”

Keeping a bright smile on her face, she handed Martin her shopping bags and kept her purse on her shoulder. “Thanks. I’ll freshen up and join him.”

“Yes, Signorina.”

The man couldn’t speak ten words of Italian. As soon as staff members picked up a basic understanding of the language, her father fired them. Smart members played dumb. Gisella found her allies among them, but she’d learned to mind her comments, too.

Ducking into the gilt-papered bathroom off the foyer, she pinched her cheeks, added lipstick and prepared to act like a dutiful daughter. Her life revolved around the Miami Ballet Company, beachside runs and formal dinners, but in her father’s house, she would forever be ‘Gigi’.

Bracing her hands on the sink, she tilted her head. Her loving father owned Florida’s biggest commercial real estate company, Cosmica Insurance Holdings, but he also ran the Florida branch of the Italian mob.

He wore a suit to school functions, but when business soured at home, he rolled up his shirtsleeves, and the gentlemanly look faded. When she had been ten, she’d witnessed the reality of his business dealings through a crack in the study door. She’d never seen his victim again, and she’d kept her observations to herself—but she listened.

When classmates at her parochial school asked what her father did for work, she parroted the company line. “CIH offers property insurance, casualty insurance and value-added insurance services across twenty southeastern states.”

They looked impressed.

Why shouldn’t they? Every new homeowner in Florida received a direct mailing touting CIH’s low rates and friendly staff. The mailings glossed over the company’s potential money laundering credentials, but who read the fine print?

Leaving the bathroom, she made her way to the back of the house and to her father’s study. The caviar-black masculine room had views of the pool and heavy leather furniture. Despite a sparking oasis waiting beyond the windows, the room looked like a cave.

Last fall, her father’s interior designer Lisette had joined the family before Sunday dinner. Wearing a pantsuit, she’d sipped a dirty martini and made vague references to former clients. “I prefer to create a visual impact by mixing wood species and texture. That movie star I mentioned”—she sipped her drink—“had a thing for ebony.”

Gisella had wanted to like the woman, but her influence on the house’s décor leaned toward gilt and Hollywood glamour. Having a thing for ebony shocked her as much as Lisette’s cosmetic surgery bill. Once a woman immersed herself in wealth, keeping life entertaining required novelty and a steady flow of cash. “How do you plan to tackle the study?”

Lisette had wrinkled her surgically enhanced nose. “The hospitality industry uses black to create glamour, drama and intimacy. Everyone’s doing it.”

Gisella had sipped her wine and assumed Lisette was doing her father.

Walking across the room, Gisella admitted the study’s black walls created drama, but if her father wanted to scare his minions into compliance, he could pull out the handgun he kept in the desk’s top drawer. To keep her in line, he deployed guilt. ‘What would your mother think?’

She wrinkled her nose.

Walking around the polished walnut desk, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He smelled of black tea, Damascus rose, tobacco and leather. At sixty-five years old, he looked ten years younger. Faint silver streaks threaded his black hair. He could wear chinos and he would still smell like old manners and aged wine caves. “Come è andato il lavoro, Papà?”

“It is what it is.” Continuing in Italian, he set aside his papers. “How was your shopping trip?”

She sat opposite him and crossed her legs. “Fruitful.”

He laughed.

Pulling a stack of receipts from her purse, she slid them across the desk. “The rest will come by email.”

Shrugging, he leaned back in his chair and left the crumpled slips on the table. “Gigi, you’re old enough to drink and old enough to marry.”

She picked at her nails. “Is that so?”

“More than old enough. In the home country…”

Looking up, she tilted her head. “We’re not in the home country.”

He held up a hand. “But if we were, you’d be a bride, and I’d be a grandpa.”

“Ursula is older.”

“Your sister wants to be a nun.”

“So she says.” Looking past his full head of hair, she regretted her outburst and second-guessed her decision to come home after rehearsal. If she’d stayed out and shared a drink with Antonio, she’d have to listen to his stories and give up her evening run. She couldn’t hide from her father. He financed her life and provided patronage for her art. Looking at him, she softened her expression and recalled the sunlit days he’d spent with her and Ursula. “You’re too young to be a grandpa.”

about the AuthorAmy Craig lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana USA with her family and a small menagerie of pets. She writes women’s fiction and contemporary romances with intelligent and empathetic heroines. She can’t always vouch for the men. She has worked as an engineer, project manager, and incompetent waitress. In her spare time, she plays tennis and expands her husband’s honey-do list.

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Winter Blogfest: Amy Craig

This post is part of Long and Short Reviews’ Winter Blogfest. Leave a comment for a chance to win a digital copy of A WINTER ROSE .

Why Do We Love Holiday Romances?

 

Holiday romances, and romances in general, are fantasies within our reach. Indulge!

As we bustle around town squeezing cheer into our daily obligations, we indulge in holiday romances, and why not? Those chipper stories teach us the healing magic of all-night labor, spontaneous windfalls, and cathartic tears. Why shouldn’t a shirtless, ripped lumberjack show up on your snowy porch with a Santa hat and nowhere else to go? What else could you possibly need? A priceless antique in your batty aunt’s shed? A cookie recipe so good the newspaper puts it on the front page? Holiday romances have it!

If Santa hasn’t fallen on your car windshield, and a celebrity chef hasn’t taken up residence in your kitchen, should you abandon the holidays? Hell no! If the local tree lot sold out of the discount garlands and precious tree tops disguised as Charlie Brown trees, should you burn your holiday card collection, bunker down and Scrooge up? Of course not! Spike the eggnog!

Let’s be honest. The holidays are a bit crazy. Instead of soaking up the magic, you’re probably generating it. One night, serve dinner on paper plates, download a holiday romance, and indulge in a bit of carefree relaxation.

Not convinced? I have a friend who uses paper plates for every meal. The landfill impact horrifies me, but I would pay real money to avoid washing dishes. I can’t be her every night, but I can indulge for an evening. You can be an innkeeper, underpaid assistant with a sexy boss, mid-fifties window, or reincarnated snow angel. The silliness level doesn’t matter.

In a holiday romance, conflict gets resolved, compassion and kindness prevail, and someone cleans up after the party. With all the real life negativity and sad news in the world (not to mention lasagna pans), holiday romances give you a heartwarming ending and a smile. Also, plenty of authors have added spice to their jingle bells, so if you prefer your hot cocoa with a kick, poke around the internet.

The next time you’re contemplating beautiful decor, whimsical charm, and cozy details, shelve the nostalgia and reach for a book. Holiday romances remind us of a simpler time in our lives, and they instill hope for the future, but they’re also downright kooky. If your family is anything like mine, you need a slight reprieve, and you deserve it!

In A WINTER ROSE, Eliza’s mother makes Norwegian Spiced Butter Cookies after the holidays. The quick, refrigerator cookies pack a buttery, spicy punch and complement almost any warm beverage.

Recipe Ingredients

3 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp ground cinnamon
2 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp ground cloves
1⁄2 tsp ground nutmeg
1⁄2 tsp ground cardamom
3⁄4 tsp salt
1 cup unsalted butter (room temperature)
1 1⁄4 cups sugar
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 large egg white mixed with 1 tablespoon water

Recipe Directions
Combine flour, 5 spices (cinnamon, ginger, cloves, nutmeg and cardamom), and salt in a bowl. Beat butter and sugar in a large bowl until creamy. Beat in eggs and vanilla until fluffy. Stir in flour mixture.

Divide dough in half, roll into logs, and wrap in plastic. Refrigerate for 1 hour.

Heat oven to 350°.

Slice 1/4″ cookies off logs and place on an ungreased baking sheet. Brush cookies with egg white (optional). Bake for 10-12 minutes until golden. Remove cookies to racks to cool. Store at room temperature or freeze.

Four Variations:
(1) Roll out chilled dough and use greased cookie cutters;
(2) Sprinkle cookies with powdered sugar before serving,
(3) Use cookies for ice cream sandwiches;
(4) In lieu of ground cardamom, substitute allspice or increase cinnamon and nutmeg.

Widow Eliza struggles to raise her young daughter and run her Washington state flower farm. Julien, a charming amputee with a knack for business, stops his road trip to help her out of a tight situation. A Southern native, he has no intention of sticking around a sleepy farm town. Eliza’s grit and dedication warm Julien’s wounded heart, but can they look beyond a business partnership and see the beauty of second chances?

Amy Craig lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana with her family and a small menagerie of pets. She writes contemporary romances featuring intelligent heroines. She can’t always vouch for the men. In her spare time, she plays tennis and expands her husband’s honey-do list. Before pursuing writing, she worked as an engineer, project manager, and incompetent waitress.

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Lost in L.A. by Amy Craig – Spotlight and Giveaway

Long and Short Reviews welcomes Amy Craig who is celebrating the recent release of her newest book Lost in L.A.. Enter to win a fabulous gift package and a $5.00 First For Romance Gift Code!

She agreed to a fake relationship to shield her feelings, but their rules don’t address his secrets or the magnitude of what they can build together.

Wylie’s beachside yoga classes feel like the California dream, but when an eviction notice sends her scrambling for a new place to live, she realizes that life on the streets isn’t for the faint of heart.

She strikes a promotion deal with a food truck vendor named Nolan, but an impromptu kiss proves she wants more than a side of fries from the man. He asks her out, but she demurs, knowing she can’t handle a relationship right now. When her SUV gets towed, Nolan helps her recover the vehicle and proves his heart of gold by renting her a room in the plush compound he calls home.

Faced with a bevy of overachieving new roommates, Wylie tries her best to impress the neighborhood elites. When an elderly couple stops by unannounced, she takes her act a step too far and pretends she’s Nolan’s girlfriend. When he asks her to play along to help him close the deal on a commercial kitchen, she agrees to mask her feelings, but their rules don’t address his secrets or the magnitude of what they can build together.

Reader advisory: This book deals with homelessness. There is a scene of attempted mugging, a gunshot injury, references to suicide, an implied abusive relationship and a brief scene of sexual harassment.

Enjoy an Excerpt

Wylie stood in the shadowed hallway of the two-bedroom apartment, her fist clenched as she brainstormed ways to fight an eviction notice.

Dottie, her roommate, was texting her from the security of the bathroom.

Couldn’t she face me? After four months of cohabitation, Wylie knew very little about the woman. She mostly found it funny when the overpaid nanny confiscated candy from her sugar-restricted charges, retreated to the bathroom and savored the contraband where no one could see her. Today, Wylie struggled to find humor in the situation. Breathing through her frustration, she released her fist and sank to the floor. “The wrappers in the trashcan give you away,” she whispered. “We both know what you’re doing in there.”

She looked down the hallway and focused on the living room couch where Dottie’s orange-and-white cat luxuriated on the corduroy fabric, as smug as its owner. White mini-blinds cast stripes of sunlight on the room’s beige carpet, valance drapes and dusty brass fixtures. As a native of Santa Monica, Wylie understood that the furnished apartment on Montana Avenue and Fifth Street relied on its location to attract tenants. The nineteen-hundred dollars a month sublease let her walk to the beach where she taught yoga, but the cat paid nothing for his sunlit pleasure. Maybe I’ll take you with me. I could hold you for ransom until Dottie adds me to the lease.

The cat yawned.

You’re right. You’re not worth the trouble.

Steam seeped beneath the bathroom door, as nebulous as her counterarguments and self-doubts. Ignoring the tacky feel of the semi-gloss paint, she leaned against the bathroom door and pulled her fingers through her long blonde hair. This is what I get for being too trusting and naïve. I should have put my name on the lease. I should have known better than to get myself into this mess. I could find Dottie a boyfriend. A girlfriend. Whatever. Threaten to reveal her undocumented cat. Light her bed on fire. She laughed and released her hair to cover her mouth. Shit, that wasn’t appropriate.

She rapped on the bathroom door. “Dottie! Let’s talk about this situation like grown women. I’m this close to finishing two-hundred hours of professional certification and landing a full-time job with benefits. What am I supposed to do now? Live on the streets?”

Her ostensible roommate remained silent.

“There has to be another alternative.”

The faucet ran as Dottie added hot water to her tub, ignoring their shared utility costs and the environmental impacts of her two-hour bath. “What’s done is done. Cousin’s in and you’re out.”

Wylie exhaled, finding it impossible to reason with a woman who lacked the courage to face her. “This isn’t right. Don’t you have to give me some notice or something? Don’t you even feel bad about what you’re doing?”

“Not really.”

She hung her head. It doesn’t matter if she stays in that bathtub until the floor caves in. Her name’s on the lease and she calls the shots.

“I know I promised you a year—”

Wylie’s hope soared.

“But we all thought my cousin would fail her semester at UC and have to repeat it. Maybe, like, twice. Now that she’s graduated, she’s decided to come to Los Angeles to pursue her acting career.” The plastic snap of a toiletry bottle echoed in the tiled room. “My aunt called and told me this morning. What am I supposed to do?”

“Tell your mom you already have a roommate? One who’s never been late paying rent?” She considered kicking down the door and upending the bubble bath all over Dottie’s head. “A roommate who changes the litter box for the cat you’re not even supposed to have in the apartment!”

“Leave Snickerdoodle alone.”

Wylie eyed the cat. “I love animals.”

The cat stood, repositioned himself and presented his ass to Wylie.

Wylie stared at the bathroom door. “This is bad karma!”

“Sorry, kid.”

“Your cousin will never make it to her auditions on time.” Her words sped up and she stood, hoping her hard-won native logic could override the aspirations of a wannabe actress. “Your cousin needs to live in one of the San Fernando Valley neighborhoods. The Central and Eastside neighborhoods would be even better if she’s looking for a deal.”

“She’s a trust-fund kid.”

“She might decide this apartment isn’t a good fit. I don’t want you to end up with zero roommates. Maybe she could sleep on the couch for a while.” Water sloshed on the other side of the door and Wylie crossed her fingers, hoping her magnanimous offer cloaked her desperation.

“That’s the thing. My cousin wants the second bedroom. My aunt already wired me six months of rent.”

Of course she did. Wylie bit her lip and decided to play her final card. “I guess I could take the couch.”

The bathwater stilled.

Wylie clung to a moment of hope.

“You’d still have to pay me the same rent.”

Prostatitis order cialis overnight is a very common disease but difficult to cure. best female viagra To have a safe and effective treatment, Chinese herbal medicine named Diuretic and Anti-inflammatory Pill is a good choice. Treating a sexual disorder has become convenient with this medication, still one needs to be careful or pay attention cheap viagra pfizer robertrobb.com if kamagra is purchasing or consuming. As opposed to many other supplements and foods that contain the said essential nutritional elements which can help flake out your intimate organ’s blood vessels while increasing circulation towards http://robertrobb.com/what-trump-did-was-wrong-but-it-wasnt-bribery/ levitra soft the area.* Step-by-step instructions on what and when you need to combine them day-to-day to attain the quickest results feasible.* guidelines and suggestions about just how to modify this system according to your unique needs (e.g. learn how to. The counteroffer hit Wylie like a rogue wave. Her eyes widened and she slapped the door in disbelief. “You can’t charge me the same amount you’re charging for a bedroom.”

“Why not? My name’s on the lease. We’re not friends, Wylie. Take it or leave it.”

She opened her mouth to accept a month on Dottie’s fur-strewn couch.

The other woman pulled the plug on the bathwater. “You know what? Scratch that. I don’t want to put up with three women sharing one tiny bathroom. It’s not like we’re desperate.”

Tears streamed down Wylie’s cheeks as she hung her head and let her hair shield her face. The draining water sucked away the last bit of her hope. Right now, I’m the definition of desperate. She cleared her throat, determined to retain her pride. “How long do I have until your cousin shows up? Like, a week?”

“She’ll be here in the morning.”

Wylie stared at the bathroom door. “Are you serious?”

“Honestly, I thought you’d be gone by now.”

She wiped away her tears. “Funny. I’m still here.”

“You should probably leave tonight and make a clean break.”

Laughter bubbled up in Wylie’s throat, displacing her desperation. “This is not helping me out. This is, like, the definition of not helping me out.”

“I guess you can stay the night. I’ll use your deposit to pay for a cleaning service.”

“You’re funny, Dottie. Fucking hilarious.”

The woman remained silent for a minute. “Sorry, kid.”

Wylie retreated to a bedroom full of mismatched furniture and cursed her stupidity. She shoved her clothes into her duffel bag, folded a set of sheets and crammed them on top of her clothes. People have done more with less.

Dottie emerged from the bathroom wearing a towel and a hair turban straight from the archives of the home shopping channel. She tossed an envelope of cash on the bare mattress. “Here’s your deposit. I hope everything works out.”

Wylie stared at the clumsy script bearing her name, Wylie Winidad. The sight of the familiar envelope brought tears to her eyes and she shook her head, realizing Dottie had never felt the need to deposit her hard-earned cash. “Thanks, I guess.”

The woman nodded and retreated without saying another word.

Wylie picked up the envelope of money and shoved it into her purse while she considered her predicament. Why do bad things happen to good people? I’ve done everything right since my parents left town. How am I going to scrape together the money I need for a deposit on my own place? I need to figure out a way to take care of myself, but there’s no wau I’m calling my parents. Most of the people I know have moved away and like…grown up.

She thought of her mom and dad ensconced in an Oregon complex full of California refugees. ‘They’ll be the hardest years of your life,’ her mother had said, boxing up a lifetime of dishes and serving pieces. ‘You’re only twenty-six years old. Instead of fending for yourself, why don’t you tag along with us?’

‘Because I belong here.’

‘Oh, honey, you’ll always belong with us.’

Wylie blinked away the sting of tears. ‘Thanks, Mom.’

The next day, her parents had driven up the coast in a rental truck full of furniture and left her in Santa Monica with a wardrobe of frayed designer jeans, a jumble of high-priced loungewear and the athletic gear she needed to host her beachside classes.

She’d gotten drunk with Natalia to celebrate her independence. Clinking glasses, they’d toasted having everything they needed. Most of their sporadic interactions involved yoga classes and cocktails, but Wylie knew her best friend would let her crash for a few days if she happened to be in town. Unfortunately, the spunky yoga enthusiast worked as a studio scout and her social media feed showed her scouting battle sites on the Horn of Africa. Who would let me in? Nobody. I have nobody left in this town.

She wheezed as the reality of her situation set in. The muscles in her airways tightened and stress impeded her breathing. Now is not the time for an asthma attack. She focused on calming her rapid inhalations, but the muscles in her neck and chest tightened as panic set in. The pain of the clenching muscles echoed through her body. Doubling over, she scrambled for the rescue inhaler in her purse and dumped out the contents of the bag. The metallic inhaler caught her eyes. She pumped the cartridge, slumped to the floor and waited for the rush of the short-acting bronchodilator to relieve her systems. What would I do without my medicine?

Twenty minutes later, her breathing slowed and she wondered when the misery of this day would end. Trusting her heart rate to remain stable, she struggled to her feet and hefted her duffel bag, testing her strength against an upset stomach and shaky limbs. I can do this.

Dottie sat on the couch in a pair of pajamas, her turban in place while she watched a cooking show with the cat.

I’m surprised she’s not hiding in her room.

The cooking show went to commercials.

Dottie looked up. “Do you need any help with your stuff?”

Oh, so now you’re helpful? Wylie shook her head, dropped the first duffel bag by the front door and returned to the bedroom to grab the second one. She straightened her spine as she walked between her former roommate and a television chef demonstrating how to make pasta. “Adios, Snickerdoodle. It’s been swell.”

The cat’s eyes remained closed.

About the Author:Amy Craig lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana USA with her family and a small menagerie of pets. She writes women’s fiction and contemporary romances with intelligent and empathetic heroines. She can’t always vouch for the men. She has worked as an engineer, project manager, and incompetent waitress. In her spare time, she plays tennis and expands her husband’s honey-do list.

Find Amy at her website, on Amazon and follow her at BookBub.

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