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The ideal writing space is a desk with lots of drawers and the space for a keyboard, mouse, and room to write on a sheet of paper. There needs to be a shelf where the screen sits preferably eight inches high. Lots of table space left and right for all the “extras” required, like a holder for pens, pencils, highlighter, magnifying glass, and scissors.

The usual things have to be available in the desk drawers, rubber bands, stapler, staple remover, correction tape, scotch tape, glue stick, cell phone recharging cord, and batteries for the mouse.

The desk must be located near an electrical outlet because a power strip is essential for all the numerous computer equipment, desk lamp, and recharge your cell.

On the wall behind is a large bookcase filled with books, books, and more books. Proudly displayed are my own!

And somewhere to the side is a footstool with a pillow on it for a cat to sit on. It needs to be near me so that when I have petted the cat for 3 minutes or so and want to return to work, they can be gracefully encouraged to jump onto a cushy lil sleep place.

And, of course, a great desk chair that swivels, leans back and never descends, leaving your knees in your face.

That is ideal. That is not what I have. I am missing the writing space, and enough drawers, the bookshelves, and as you can guess, my chair pneumatics has a bad seal and stays up sometimes and sometimes not. My writing space is cramped and cluttered, but although it is not perfect, I seem to get a lot of creative work completed. Perfection will never write the next book for me.

I was DONE! I ditched graduation, dumped my repressed college boyfriend, and dropped my sexual insecurities for a wild ride with Destiny. Unpredictable Fate beckoned with a European adventure!

In a chance encounter, I met Jean Louis. From the instant we met, the dashing young Frenchman soothed my bruised heart, rejuvenated my spirit, and convinced me that leaving my old life was no mistake. Together, we set out to explore southern France.

Jean Louis was torn from my life almost as quickly as he had entered it, yet leaving the haunting memory of his caress permeating my every thought. Driven by love and passion, I journeyed to find my lover, even if it meant scouring all the hidden corners of France.

Would I ever reunite with the man I believe to be my one true soulmate? Would I ever hear him say he feels the same for me as I do him? What twist of Fate will it take for me to find him?

Enjoy an Excerpt

There was only one window in the room, which had no screen. To keep out the bugs, we closed the shutter, which still allowed some air inside. That evening, I slept on the couch, right below the window, and the guys lay on the cement floor. The males had no blankets or sleeping bags, but at least they were out of the rain.

Some hours into the night, I was dreaming of Luke. Luke, who loved to tease me by fondling me when I was asleep, by touching my cheek or blowing a strand of hair or slowly stroking my hand. I smiled and wiggled my fingers, and he responded. It was so lovely to feel his antics. I missed his night tricks. His hand was trailing up my arm, and soft lips kissed my palm. Luke. So romantic. Always waking me with kisses.

I let out a sigh, slowly drifting my eyes open. It seemed it had been forever since Luke had brushed my cheek or held me close. I longed for his warmth.

The room was so dark, I couldn’t see a thing. I wasn’t on the waterbed. My heart pounded with alarm. Where am I? My arm was hanging over the side of a couch. Where the hell am I? It was pitch-black.

The fingers tickled a bit more with a kiss on my arm, then came a whisper. Was I dreaming? Or awake? The whisper came again.

I whispered back, “What?” I felt the side of the bed depress. The murmuring voice was now by my face.

“J’ai froid.”

“Luke?”

“Oui. J’ai froid.”

This wasn’t Luke. Not my Luke. A bolt of recognition struck me hard as I comprehended. I didn’t recall his name, it did sound something like Luke, and it was the French guy Marc had brought in from the rain.

My high school French was twisting my brain cells to recall…J’ai means I am, right is droite, left is gauche…and a left faucet is chaud, which means hot, and right is froid—COLD. He is cold!

I patted the couch, and he squeezed onto the settee with me. He cuddled his arms around me, kissed my cheek, and we returned to slumber.

All three of us woke as the morning sunlight pierced the slits of the shutter. They bounced off the wall and into the room. We had some tea before the two men left. Around dinner time, Jean Louis returned alone, with sandwiches and chocolates. I had unknowingly passed another sex attraction test.

Constrained by the lack of English language skills, Jean Louis spoke very few words. I am an excellent mimic, but my French language skills were limited.

After dinner, sipping our tea, Jean Louis turned to me.

“I wants stay wis you.” I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. For the evening? Sleep on the floor? Sleep with me?

“En bas?” I tapped the floor with my foot.

“Si je dois. Je préfère avec toi.”

I wasn’t sure about all the words, but the last two, avec toi, meant “with you.”

About the Author:As a Special Education teacher, I became fascinated by the English language. I still marvel at how it changes and expands over time. My most pleasurable teaching moments were showing children how a wondrous story can take their imaginations to other times, places, even other worlds. When the pandemic began, I started my first foray into publishing⸺ a nonfiction book, The Sensible Parent’s Little Homeschooler Handbook.

My secret pleasure-writing has always been focused on romance. French Kiss is a Contemporary Romance based on a fictionalized version of experiences during eighteen months of living and working abroad before the formation of the European Union.

Next year, my first Historical Regency Romance That Wylde Woman will be published. It has allowed me to indulge my curiosity and enthusiasm for history by incorporating in the storyline a historical geologic event which affected weather and farming and even how England’s war with Napoleon impacted clothing styles.

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