A lovely collection of contemporary romance stories
Free to Kindle Unlimited users!
Free to Kindle Unlimited users!
This charming anthology of seven sweet romance stories centers around the theme of single parents finding love again. It is published by Satin Romance Books. My story is "The Ticket to Her Heart" about a traffic cop who falls for a woman he tickets for speeding. How does he handle it? Not well. What does his 15-year-old daughter think of it? You'll be surprised.
Now available at Amazon Kindle
or in print at Lulu
Now available at Amazon Kindle
or in print at Lulu
More Reviews!
"One of my beach reads, and full of a mixed bag of great stories. Especially like the fact the characters are all well developed - something I find often missing from romance short stories. The stories take you from city to countryside, and involve a whole load of mishaps, but always with a smooth, satisfying ending!" Amazon review
"if you are a fan of this genre, I would definitely recommend you give this book a try. They remind me of the popular romance movie on Hallmark or Lifetime. It's the perfect read for the beach or when you're traveling." Lavender reviews
Always nice when a reviewer specifically mentions my story:
"Although I enjoyed all the stories, I’ll only mention a few. The first one ‘Ticket to her Heart’ was unusual and compelling. I particularly enjoyed this author’s crisp, economical writing style demonstrating that rare talent some writers have of painting vast pictures in few words." ManicScribbler review
"One thing I really liked was that it was told solely from the male perspective, which is refreshing. That's not something you see often in romance, it was a nice change. Overall I thought it was a nice, sweet story with a well thought out plot, even for as short as it was. It was a nice way to spend a summer afternoon." My Own Little Corner review
"One of my beach reads, and full of a mixed bag of great stories. Especially like the fact the characters are all well developed - something I find often missing from romance short stories. The stories take you from city to countryside, and involve a whole load of mishaps, but always with a smooth, satisfying ending!" Amazon review
"if you are a fan of this genre, I would definitely recommend you give this book a try. They remind me of the popular romance movie on Hallmark or Lifetime. It's the perfect read for the beach or when you're traveling." Lavender reviews
Always nice when a reviewer specifically mentions my story:
"Although I enjoyed all the stories, I’ll only mention a few. The first one ‘Ticket to her Heart’ was unusual and compelling. I particularly enjoyed this author’s crisp, economical writing style demonstrating that rare talent some writers have of painting vast pictures in few words." ManicScribbler review
"One thing I really liked was that it was told solely from the male perspective, which is refreshing. That's not something you see often in romance, it was a nice change. Overall I thought it was a nice, sweet story with a well thought out plot, even for as short as it was. It was a nice way to spend a summer afternoon." My Own Little Corner review
Here's a little peek at the story:
I get out of my car and start to approach her driver’s side window. She’s got a full head of blond hair; I can see it curling around the headrest. I can also tell that she’s dropped her head, and by its gentle bobbing, she is crying. I hate that. The criers. Always trying to talk me out of tickets. “I’m so sorry, blah blah blah. I’ll never do it again.” I’ve heard it a million times. I hate seeing a lady cry, but toughen up, kid. You broke the law. Not only that, but you thought you were going to get away with it because I was about to pull over that other guy. As my mama used to say, “Shame on you.”
I step up to her window, and she rolls it down. Her blond hair rises like a curtain as she lifts her face to look at me. Tears streak her cheeks, but I hardly notice them, because the source of them are eyes as deep blue as a pond, round and perfect. She doesn’t wear a stitch of eyeliner or mascara, and she doesn’t need to. The rich color of her eyes is striking enough without it.
I find myself stuttering, “D-do you kn-know why I pulled you over?” Her hands are still on the wheel, and I can tell by the fact that she hasn’t moved that she has never received a ticket before. I remind myself to be professional. They’re just eyes, man. Gorgeous eyes, but just eyes.
I direct her. “License, registration, and proof of insurance, please.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She wipes her cheeks with the back of her left hand (no ring, I just happen to notice) while her right hand fishes through the purse to her side. Now that her eyes are busy searching for the required documents, I am able to get myself together. I puff up a little taller. Although, I can’t help but notice that she’s wearing a blouse that reveals how creamy the skin is on her neck and flatters her slender curves. I look up at the sun and wince at its brightness and tap my toe to get focused.
Then I hear her say very gently, “Hold on, honey. This will only take a minute. Okay?”
Honey? That is very friendly, even for a Southern girl, especially when she’s been crying over a speeding ticket. I look through her window again in time to see her pull a baggie full of Cheerios out of her purse and pass it to the backseat.
How had I not noticed the car seat back there? I’d looked right past it to the fluffy blond hair. Now I take in a bubbly little boy that can’t be much over two years old, happily munching on the few Cheerios that didn’t spill in his lap when he opened the baggie. I wave at him and he grins wide back at me.
The lady sits up straight and hands me what I need. No fingernail polish on her nails. This girl is all natural but for a touch of gloss on her lips that could well just be Chapstick.
“Look,” she says as I start to move away from the car. “Sir? Officer? Wait.”
I pause, but I know what’s going to happen. Here come the excuses. I stand with my weight on one hip and cock my head with a bit of impatience. I really just want to get this over with and let the pretty lady on her way.
The tears start streaking her cheeks again, like she can’t stop them. Her voice stays fairly calm, though, and I wonder if she’s controlling it for me or for Billy in the backseat.
“I know I was speeding. I know it. I drive this stretch every day, and I never speed here. I don’t because there’s always a cop, uh, policeman, here waiting, you know? Just today is different. See, today, Billy had a diaper blow out right when I was headed out the door. He got it all over himself and ruined my outfit too. I had to clean him up and then change. I called my boss and told him I was running late, and he said that if I was late one more time, I was fired.”
Her voice cracks as the desperation starts taking over. She gulps hard. I’m not sure if she is going to be able to go on, so I start to say, “Ma’am I…”
“Please,” she says. It’s barely a whisper. She raises her hands at me to wait and listen.
I don’t know why, but I do.
“I still have to drop Billy off at day care, and I’ve got to stop for gas. I’m already twenty minutes behind with no hope of catching up. This ticket is just going to make me even later. I know this is stupid to ask, but could you please consider…” She stops and waves her right hand in front of her face as if to dry the tears and lifts her face to the roof of the car. She takes a deep breath, but the tears continue. “Could you just give me a warning, so I can keep going? I can’t afford to lose my job.”
I lick that sore spot on my lip from where I bit it this morning. I need to keep my job too. Her ticket fits the definition of “doozy”, and it’ll stick because she has no way to deny she was speeding. She seems sincere, and I feel for her. Surely her boss isn’t the complete jerk she made him out to be. Most bosses are forgiving of diaper blow-outs, and a speeding ticket shows that she tried to hustle.
Her boss might give her a second chance, but I’m not going to.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I say plainly, “the longer you try to talk me out of it, the longer this is going to take. Let me go take care of this, and I’ll have you on your way in a jiffy.”
I return to my car and force myself not to look back at her. I quickly plug in her information. Based on her license plate records, I find I am right about her. Emily Myles of Antioch, Tennessee has never gotten any kind of ticket before. She is squeaky clean at twenty-five years old. She’s eight years younger than me, and it makes my chest tighten to think I’m the one breaking her clean streak when I had two tickets before I even turned eighteen. A part of me wants to wave it away. She is a prime candidate for a warning. Perfect driving record, sweet lady, looks like a single mom to boot. She deserves a break.
But I’ve already entered it into the system. I can’t take it back now. I print the ticket and walk back to the car.
I get out of my car and start to approach her driver’s side window. She’s got a full head of blond hair; I can see it curling around the headrest. I can also tell that she’s dropped her head, and by its gentle bobbing, she is crying. I hate that. The criers. Always trying to talk me out of tickets. “I’m so sorry, blah blah blah. I’ll never do it again.” I’ve heard it a million times. I hate seeing a lady cry, but toughen up, kid. You broke the law. Not only that, but you thought you were going to get away with it because I was about to pull over that other guy. As my mama used to say, “Shame on you.”
I step up to her window, and she rolls it down. Her blond hair rises like a curtain as she lifts her face to look at me. Tears streak her cheeks, but I hardly notice them, because the source of them are eyes as deep blue as a pond, round and perfect. She doesn’t wear a stitch of eyeliner or mascara, and she doesn’t need to. The rich color of her eyes is striking enough without it.
I find myself stuttering, “D-do you kn-know why I pulled you over?” Her hands are still on the wheel, and I can tell by the fact that she hasn’t moved that she has never received a ticket before. I remind myself to be professional. They’re just eyes, man. Gorgeous eyes, but just eyes.
I direct her. “License, registration, and proof of insurance, please.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She wipes her cheeks with the back of her left hand (no ring, I just happen to notice) while her right hand fishes through the purse to her side. Now that her eyes are busy searching for the required documents, I am able to get myself together. I puff up a little taller. Although, I can’t help but notice that she’s wearing a blouse that reveals how creamy the skin is on her neck and flatters her slender curves. I look up at the sun and wince at its brightness and tap my toe to get focused.
Then I hear her say very gently, “Hold on, honey. This will only take a minute. Okay?”
Honey? That is very friendly, even for a Southern girl, especially when she’s been crying over a speeding ticket. I look through her window again in time to see her pull a baggie full of Cheerios out of her purse and pass it to the backseat.
How had I not noticed the car seat back there? I’d looked right past it to the fluffy blond hair. Now I take in a bubbly little boy that can’t be much over two years old, happily munching on the few Cheerios that didn’t spill in his lap when he opened the baggie. I wave at him and he grins wide back at me.
The lady sits up straight and hands me what I need. No fingernail polish on her nails. This girl is all natural but for a touch of gloss on her lips that could well just be Chapstick.
“Look,” she says as I start to move away from the car. “Sir? Officer? Wait.”
I pause, but I know what’s going to happen. Here come the excuses. I stand with my weight on one hip and cock my head with a bit of impatience. I really just want to get this over with and let the pretty lady on her way.
The tears start streaking her cheeks again, like she can’t stop them. Her voice stays fairly calm, though, and I wonder if she’s controlling it for me or for Billy in the backseat.
“I know I was speeding. I know it. I drive this stretch every day, and I never speed here. I don’t because there’s always a cop, uh, policeman, here waiting, you know? Just today is different. See, today, Billy had a diaper blow out right when I was headed out the door. He got it all over himself and ruined my outfit too. I had to clean him up and then change. I called my boss and told him I was running late, and he said that if I was late one more time, I was fired.”
Her voice cracks as the desperation starts taking over. She gulps hard. I’m not sure if she is going to be able to go on, so I start to say, “Ma’am I…”
“Please,” she says. It’s barely a whisper. She raises her hands at me to wait and listen.
I don’t know why, but I do.
“I still have to drop Billy off at day care, and I’ve got to stop for gas. I’m already twenty minutes behind with no hope of catching up. This ticket is just going to make me even later. I know this is stupid to ask, but could you please consider…” She stops and waves her right hand in front of her face as if to dry the tears and lifts her face to the roof of the car. She takes a deep breath, but the tears continue. “Could you just give me a warning, so I can keep going? I can’t afford to lose my job.”
I lick that sore spot on my lip from where I bit it this morning. I need to keep my job too. Her ticket fits the definition of “doozy”, and it’ll stick because she has no way to deny she was speeding. She seems sincere, and I feel for her. Surely her boss isn’t the complete jerk she made him out to be. Most bosses are forgiving of diaper blow-outs, and a speeding ticket shows that she tried to hustle.
Her boss might give her a second chance, but I’m not going to.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I say plainly, “the longer you try to talk me out of it, the longer this is going to take. Let me go take care of this, and I’ll have you on your way in a jiffy.”
I return to my car and force myself not to look back at her. I quickly plug in her information. Based on her license plate records, I find I am right about her. Emily Myles of Antioch, Tennessee has never gotten any kind of ticket before. She is squeaky clean at twenty-five years old. She’s eight years younger than me, and it makes my chest tighten to think I’m the one breaking her clean streak when I had two tickets before I even turned eighteen. A part of me wants to wave it away. She is a prime candidate for a warning. Perfect driving record, sweet lady, looks like a single mom to boot. She deserves a break.
But I’ve already entered it into the system. I can’t take it back now. I print the ticket and walk back to the car.
