ANNALISA CRAWFORD: WHY I DON'T CONSIDER MYSELF A PARANORMAL AUTHOR

Just a quick note: Annalisa will be my last guest this summer. I will be back in September with guests. Other than Monday Musings, I will be taking off July and August to focus on some personal issues. I will still be visiting here and there, just not as often. 

My guest is UK author, Annalisa Crawford. She likes to tantalize readers by writing intriguing stories that touch on the unexplained. 

The paranormal genre is hugely popular in today's writing and viewing market. Lines get a bit blurred with all the sub-genres. The bottom line is the paranormal genre encompass happenings beyond the normal human experience and can't yet be explained by science. 

Annalisa's topic is why she doesn't consider herself a true paranormal author but is compelled to add she does utilize elements of the paranormal. Fascinating.

What do you think of when you hear the word paranormal?

Personally, I think of demons, werewolves, zombies, vampires… especially vampires! More than that, I think of grave peril; whole towns in danger of being burnt to the ground by rampaging demons, or being sucked into a vortex.

I don’t write about any of these things, and yet I’m compelled to add the words with elements of paranormal, shades of paranormal, hints… to my chosen genre.

The term paranormal, to me, means there’s been a certain amount of world-building –a world where these characters are out in the open, and non-paranormal characters are aware of them. You could be walking down the street and meet a vampire. You might not be that concerned; you might even flirt or fall in love. You would not run away screaming; they would not be altogether hideous.

My paranormal tends to be more internal. You won’t meet a werewolf, but you might meet a man who thinks he is one. You might stand behind a woman, in a queue for the bus, who’s left the Devil back at home, in the form of her cat. You might share a coffee with your boss who’s listening more intently to the voice in her ear than you. And the voice will be very real.

In one of my short stories, a girl splits in two. It could be literal or a metaphor, and what I really like doing – what my mum really hates – is letting the reader decide for themselves. I always know what I believe, but I want readers to make up their own mind. After all, that’s what people do daily, isn't it? They choose whether to believe they’re looking at a picture of a ghost in the newspaper or not.

I think the power of the human brain is the most paranormal -the most unexplained - subject of them all. We have no idea what we are truly capable of, or what really exists outside our realm of consciousness. One of my favourite books when I was younger was a collection of unexplained stories: telekinesis, time slips, the Bermuda Triangle, spontaneous combustion. And I plan to write about all of them.

And if I can completely baffle my mother in the process, all the better!

I’d like to say a huge thank you to Sia for letting me blog here today.

                                                                                                                                                      

Three women. Three stories. One pub...

“The Boathouse collects misfits. Strange solitary creatures that yearn for contact with the outside world, but not too much. They sit, glass in hand, either staring at the table in front of them, or at some distant point on the horizon.”

… so says the narrator of Our Beautiful Child. And he’s been around long enough to know.

People end up in this town almost by accident. Ella is running away from her nightmares, Sally is running away from the memories of previous boyfriends and Rona is running away from university. Each of them seek sanctuary in the 18th century pub, The Boathouse; but in fact, that’s where their troubles begin.

Ella finds love, a moment too late; Rona discovers a beautiful ability which needs refining before she gets hurt; and Sally meets the captivating Murray, who threatens to ruin everything.

                                                                                                                    

I live in Cornwall UK, with a good supply of beaches and moorland right on my doorstep to keep me inspired. I live with my husband, two sons, a dog and a cat.

Despite my location, I neither surf nor sail, and have never had any inclination to try. I much prefer walking along a deserted beach and listening to the waves crashing over rocks. For this reason, I really love the beach in the winter!

Links:

Website // Blog // Twitter // Facebook // Pinterest // Add to Goodreads

MEET JENNIFER WALKUP

Today’s writer rarely has the perfect time and place to write.  For most, it’s a matter of carving out the necessary time while taking care of their responsibilities to family and job. It’s a tough juggling act. 

My guest, Jennifer Walkup, talks about some things that have helped her stay on track and overcome the negatives.

• How do you juggle working and family obligations with your writing career?

This is a tough one! I have a job, two young kids, a husband, a dog and a house. Plus I freelance edit for a few publishers and a literary magazine. I’m pretty good at multitasking but there is still only so much time. There are some things I won’t cut corners on - like family time with my husband and kids – but other things I have no problem slacking off on. I’m looking at you, housework! Ha! I’m not saying I completely ignore it, but there may be a few more weeds in my garden and a bit more dust in my house than there should be.

Many of us working mom types think we can do it all, but throw writing into the mix and it becomes literally impossible to get it all done. The sooner I let go of getting it ALL done, the better I felt. In other words: don’t sweat the small stuff! 

• What does your writing day look like?

Unfortunately, I don’t have a typical writing day. Being a mom to two young boys, my day is often upside down and backwards. Between that and working, I sneak in writing where I can. I try to write every night when the kids go to sleep, and can usually fit in a few hours. I’m a much more efficient writer early in the day, however, so when I can sneak in some morning writing hours, I’m a happy girl! 

• How do you handle negatives?

I try really hard not to let them bring me down. I’d like to say I don’t read reviews – I know some authors don’t – but I’m not that strong. I read them from time to time. When a reader doesn't agree with (or downright doesn't like) something about my book, I try not to absorb it. And it mostly works. Not every book is for everyone. And that’s okay! It’s just like when we writers are querying agents and submitting to editors and publishers. Not every agent or editor is going to love our work. Same with readers. As long as I’m entertaining some readers, I take it as a win! 

• How has associating with other writers helped you?

In all my years of writing and trying to get published, the writing community has helped me more than anything else in the world!

I have learned so much from fellow writers about the craft itself. Without the writing community I never would have gotten my manuscripts in shape to try and publish, and certainly never would have gotten published. The writing community is amazing – supportive, understanding and after all these years, filled with wonderful friends. Love my myriad critique partners and writing buddies! 

• What do you still struggle with as an author?

Everything! Ha, it’s funny, but true! Every single novel I write has its set of challenges. And every single story, every new character has the same approach. Is this interesting? Is this real enough? Will this grab the reader? Will this bore people? Will they like this character? Hate this character? Will this keep them guessing enough? All the fears I've had since book one are still the same. 

Now it’s a little scarier, actually. Since Second Verse came out, I've had people emailing to ask: “I loved your book! When’s the sequel?” It’s amazing feedback and it makes me feel great! But I’m terrified too. What if the sequel doesn't deliver? What if these readers don’t love it as much? So those fears, I think, they are always there. The key is channeling that into productivity, which I am slowly but surely learning how to do. 

• Second Verse is a ghost story—a bit dark and definitely on the scary side—with a rich portion of romance stirred in. What inspired this series or characters?

Second Verse is a mystery/thriller with paranormal elements. Not one bit of the story was inspired by anything in real life. Like most writers, I have a huge imagination and like many, I get inspired by seemingly innocuous things that cross my path. The inspiration for Second Verse was one of those instances. To make a long story short, it was inspired by the 30^th anniversary of a famous musician’s death. The whole story can be found on my site. 

• I’m always curious to see how people respond to the question of personal heroes. Who is your real life hero? Why?

My real life hero is my oldest son. He’s 7 years old and is the strongest, bravest boy I know. He was diagnosed with epilepsy a few years ago and even though things aren't always easy for him, he works so hard at everything he does and deals with so much that I wish he didn't have to. But he takes it all in stride and just keeps going. 

On that note, this would be a good time to mention that I’m donating a portion of all book sales in November to fund epilepsy research in honor of Epilepsy Awareness Month. 

So if you are interested in my book or know someone who’d like one as a holiday gift, if you purchase this month, part of the sale will go to epilepsy research!

Thanks so much for having me on OVER COFFEE today! I really appreciated getting to hang out here and chat with your readers!

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

BUY: AMAZON, B&N, INDIEBOUND

Bad things come in threes. In Shady Springs, that includes murder.

Murder Now
Lange Crawford's move to Shady Springs, Pennsylvania, lands her a group of awesome friends, a major crush on songwriter Vaughn, and life in a haunted, 200-year-old farmhouse. It also brings The Hunt: an infamous murder mystery festival where students solve a fake, gruesome murder scheme during the week of Halloween. Well, supposedly fake.  

Murder Then
Weeks before The Hunt, Lange and her friends hold a séance in the farmhouse's eerie barn. When a voice rushes through, whispering haunting words that only she and Vaughn can hear, Lange realizes it's begging for help. The mysterious voice leads Lange and Vaughn to uncover letters and photos left behind by a murdered girl, Ginny, and they become obsessed with her story and the horrifying threats that led to her murder.  

Murder Yet to Come
But someone doesn't like their snooping, and Lange and Vaughn begin receiving the same threats that Ginny once did. The mysterious words from the barn become crucial to figuring out Ginny's past and discovering how their own past is connected to hers. They must work fast to uncover the truth or risk finding out if history really does repeat itself. Excerpt

                                                                                                                                                         

When Jennifer Walkup isn't writing or reading, she’s spending time with her husband and young sons, listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers, and coming up with costume ideas for Halloween. She’s obsessed with good coffee and new recipes and likes broccoli on her pizza, flowers in her hair, flip-flops on her feet, and the number 13. A member of SCBWI and RWA, Jennifer also serves as fiction editor for The Meadowland Review and teaches creative writing at The Writers Circle. Second Verse is her first novel. 

You can find Jennifer: Website, Blog, Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter.

FIUANA LUND—MY WORSE ENEMY

You have to take control of both writer and critic and learn where and when to let each voice emerge.

She’s rude. She has no regard for my feelings—or anybody else’s for that matter. When I see her looking my way, I cringe. I mean, my stomach really curdles. I would

run in the opposite direction if I could.  But there are times when she has me trapped, backed into a corner. Those are the worst times. She’s mean, she’s ugly, she’s got a HUGE rear end—and she hates me. The worst thing about her is that I find myself facing her in the mirror every morning.

I am my own worst enemy, my toughest critic, and the least supportive person in my life where my writing is concerned.

The same can be said for most writers I know. That’s not to say that a part of me isn't still delusional, witlessly hoping to win a Pulitzer prize or earn the title of New York Times Bestseller at some point. But the truth is, when asked about my books or my writing, I struggle to find anything positive to say. In fact, I recently did a radio interview to promote my book. The kind host asked me to talk about Indigo, to get into the book and talk about the story. I opened my mouth and began to blather on and on about a mythology class I took in college. Why did I do that? Why did I practically change the subject instead of sing the praises for a story I poured my heart and soul into, a book I really do like?

I love writing. There are times when imagination matches energy and words spring forth with carefully controlled urgency and I find myself glued to my keyboard, unable and unwilling to pull myself from my constructed world. That’s where the magic is; those moments of writing flow are what we ink slingers live for. But the rest of it? The rest of it is pretty close to agony. In order to sell your work you must be able to sell yourself. How can you sell yourself while there is a battle brewing inside your mind between the writer and the critic? In a word: balance.

Mind over matter, is what my husband says. You have to take control of both writer and critic and learn where and when to let each voice emerge. To be a successful writer, you must cultivate both voices, temper them, and learn where and when each is appropriate. For example, during the creative phase of writing—you know, that point when you've outlined and storyboarded and it’s time to add meat to the bones of your story—that’s when the writer voice needs to emerge loud and strong. That other voice, the one nobody likes to listen to, the critic—well, she needs to shut up. No, like really. Cover her mouth with duct tape and hide her fat butt in a closet. That writer in you needs to be set free without worry or concern.

On the other hand, when it’s time to edit—and I don’t care who you are, you need to edit—tell the writer in you to go take a nap and let the critic out of the closet. Despite all the ugly things I've said about the critic, she’s not all bad.  In fact, in the right setting, she can become one of your greatest allies, allowing you to polish your skills, accept constructive comments, and manage your expectations.

But that’s pretty much where her reign ends. Sooner or later you’re going to have to find the energy and passion to sell your story. That’s when the critic needs to be put away—far, far away. Book her a ticket on a one-way cruise to somewhere icy and cold and perfect for witches like her. Am I right?

The bottom line is this: Believe in yourself. Believe in your talent. Trust your gut, paying attention to both the writer and critic in you. And when you find yourself loathing the critic staring you in the mirror every morning, take a break, take a breath, and then write her out of your next chapter.

• How do you overcome the blues when you become your own worst critic?

                                                                                                                                                                                      

BUY: AMAZON, B&N, INDIEBOUND

INDIGO

Fiauna Lund

Seventeen-year-old Brit Kavanagh is hiding something: Just before her mother disappeared, she gave Brit faery wings … sewn into her skin.

When her father’s death forces Brit to leave the only home she’s ever known, danger follows her like a shadow. Catastrophe strikes again and again, and at every turn, she is confronted by the terrifying apparition of an otherworldly banshee.

Desperate to unravel the mysteries behind her wings and the curse of the banshee, Brit turns to Gentry O’Neill, a handsome stranger who knows more than he’s telling. With Gentry’s help, Brit pieces together her mother’s troubled past and discovers the horrifying truth of her own existence.

Her mother gave her wings, but she never meant for Brit to fly.

EXCERPT
                                                                                                                                                                                        

Fiauna Lund is a grown woman with an overactive imagination, a passion for writing, four children, and the dirty house to prove it.

Reading and writing have always been passions for Fiauna. During her childhood she spent hours exploring the woods of rural western Pennsylvania where she first began creating stories about faeries, pixies, magic, and mystical creatures.

She met her husband, Aaron, while attending Utah State University, and later earned a degree in human services from Columbia College which allowed her to study the uniquely challenged and inspiring people who serve as her collective muse. She now resides in Farmington, Utah. When she's not reading, writing, or running, she spends her time caring for her four adorable children and two curious cats. 

You can find Fiauna:  Facebook, Goodreads, Website/Blog

HOT READS FOR A COLD WINTER'S NIGHT

Winter is a wonderful time to hunker down and read a good book. Most I feature with Hot Reads are either books I've chosen to read (not been asked) or books I want to read. So grab some coffee, tea, or hot chocolate, and your favorite blanket/quilt and snuggle up and read!

DON’T CRY FOR ME

Sharon Sala

Mariah Conrad has come home. Badly wounded on active duty in Afghanistan and finally released stateside, she has no family to call on and nowhere to go—until Quinn Walker arrives at her bedside. Quinn, …her brother-in-arms, ex-lover and now maybe her future.

Quinn brings Mariah to his log cabin in the Appalachian Mountains of Kentucky to rest and recuperate, both physically and emotionally. While she's incredibly grateful, Mariah is also confused and frustrated. She's always stood on her own two feet, but now even that can literally be torture. She's having flashbacks and blackouts, hearing helicopter noises in the night. She wants to push Quinn away—and hold him closer than ever.

But will she get the chance? Those helicopters are more than just post-traumatic stress; they're real—and dangerous. Bad things are happening on the mountain. Suddenly there's a battle to be fought on the home front, and no guarantee of survival. Read a chapter Excerpt

I absolutely love a heroine who can get the job done despite the odds. Some great scenes in this one with Mariah. Missed the first in the series but will be going back to read it. This one was definitely stand alone.

                                                                                                                                       

GUARDIANS OF STONE #1

Anita Clenney

Kendall Morgan is a human bloodhound. Spending her childhood hunting relics with her ambitious archeologist father, she knew the two of them shared a sixth sense for the history and location of objects—sometimes even people. What she didn’t know was that their paranormal gift could ultimately be their undoing.

After the tragic plane crash that killed her father as well as her childhood best friend, Kendall dedicated her life to finding and protecting relics. When mysterious, sexy billionaire Nathan Larraby hires her for his latest expedition—the search for four powerful relics —she’s thrown into a world of high-octane danger. He sends brooding mercenary Jake Stone to watch Kendall’s back, but he may have created danger of a different kind.

As the team chases down clues, a man called the Reaper makes a play for the artifacts and will stop at nothing to put them to his own sinister use. What’s worse is that Nathan hasn’t told the whole story, and the dark secrets he’s keeping could cost them the mission…and their lives. Read a chapter excerpt

Didn't think anything could compete with Conner Clan Series, but The Relic Seekers proved me wrong! Really looking forward to book 2! Intriguing characters and setting. I have my guess as to who Nick is and love the feisty  Kendall. Cool castle and secret order with lots of mystery and suspense.

                                                                                                                                                                

If you like shorter, fun reads, check out Misty Evans' Witches Anonymous series.

DANCING WITH THE DEVIL

Misty Evans

One step forward…

Ex-witch Amy Atwood has never wanted anyone the way she wants Lucifer. As she tackles Step 5 of Witches Anonymous—atoning for the sins she committed as his right-hand witch—she may actually land him and the magic-free life she desires.

Two steps back…

But when an ancient curse is revealed, a heavenly force determined to remove Lucifer from her life traps Amy between giving into her love for him and saving the souls of her family and friends.

Will this be the end for Amy and Lucifer?

As the war between good and evil reaches a tipping point, Amy must rely on the devil she knows—and can’t resist—to break the curse and help her redeem the souls she’s damned to spend eternity in Hell. Souls Lucifer has no intention of giving up.   Read an Excerpt…

                                                                                                                                                                      

Read any good books lately? Do share!

HOLIDAY STORIES: ON DRAGON WINGS

I thought we'd change pace a bit and add a paranormal styled holiday story.

Padrig banked left gliding ever lower to the harbor of lights. Below him were boats of all sizes decked out in fanciful holiday lights. He took care to stay above the bright lights of the harbor itself but close enough for Rowan to have a clear view of the beauty.

Nothing in this world could compare to the beauty of the woman straddling his broad back. She was a courageous and daring warrior on the battlefield. Tender yet bold in their bed. She could set his loins on fire with just a look. Without Rowan, there was no beauty in the world for him.

Rowan’s infectious laughter warmed his heart as she viewed huge gossamer butterfly wings of light on the boat below. He’d come too close to losing his mate. 

“Isn’t it beautiful Padrig? Oh look there’s one over there that looks like Santa and his sleigh taking off. Can we get closer?”

“Aye, m’lady. Hang on.” His mighty wings caught the air as he rose to circle around the harbor. He used the shadows of the night to bring her lower to the water and a closer view of the ship that caught her eye. He hovered; the downdraft of his wings caused the water below him to dance and shimmy as they watched Santa sail by. Behind it floated a Charlie Brown barge with trees and lights arranged to look like falling snow. He caught the wisp of thought from her of how she missed seeing snow fall. He smiled knowing he would show her falling snow this night.

“Oh my gods would you look over there at the floating Graceland? They even have a rocking Elvis impersonator. A rather drunk Elvis a little too far aft in his blue suede shoes and if he were to fall he’d be in danger of the propellers.”

Elvis was lifting his glass as they flew over. His eyes widened as he caught sight of Rowan and Padrig, his glass crashed to the deck as he stepped back. Arms wind milling to catch his balance as he fell against the railing and went overboard.

“Aw hell, stupid man.” Rowan’s blue light shot out and caught him mid-fall. The magic gently lifted Elvis back to the deck while Padrig provided extra sparkles of light to make it appear part of the show. Applause and whistles filled the air.

“Very nicely done, Padrig. Those sparkles were almost better than the rest of the light show.”


“Tis something he will no doubt remember for many a year.” 


“I’m thinking it’s the sight of a dragon and rider flying over him he won’t be forgetting. I’d love to hear how he tells the boys he was saved by a magical black dragon.” Rowan’s laughter rang out.

Padrig rose in the night sky banking gently so as not to jar his lady and headed north. His heart was full of thankfulness she was healing. He took such delight in her fascination with the light displays for the holidays. Padrig once glimpsed a holiday light parade through their link while still trapped in solid stone. The marvels of the modern world still baffled him but he appreciated the freedom to explore them.

He wanted tonight to be very special and had mapped out each stop with care to give her the gift of wonder and beauty of the world around them. The simple joys still present even with great evil loose in the world. He wanted her to see more than the battles of life and death they had been engaged in the past few months. Battles that had almost taken her from him.

He again felt the anguish and terror that besieged him when she nearly had been butchered by an Annuvin demon. 

Her voice, full of warmth and love, interrupted his gruesome memories. “Padrig, my love, it’s over. Your anguish is breaking my heart. Please.”

“Tá brón orm, Rowan. I had thought I was doing so well with blocking my thoughts of that day from you.”

“Not possible with something you feel so strong. We both are alive and well, Padrig. We will kick Annuvin ass later. Tonight is ours. Let’s celebrate.”

“Your wish is my command, a ghrá mo chroí.”


Rowan snorted. “Yeah, until my wish interferes with your recent belief I’m made of spun glass.”


“Ah, but a dragon knight is always right, m’lady.”

“Póg ma thoin!”

Padrig chuckled as he circled the pier in San Francisco. “Who has been teaching you to swear in Gaelic, m’lady Sass?”

“Didn’t I say it right? I was telling you to kiss my ass, Sir Macho.”

“Tis close enough. Look below, m’lady.” He felt her indrawn breath as she looked at the city below.

“Oh, it’s so beautiful at night and especially during the Christmas season. Look at the tree on the Pier and they’ve made the whole area a winter wonderland.”

He circled once again before heading further north. “Hold on Rowan, we are going up and over the Golden Gate Bridge.” The strong winds buffeted them as they flew over the bridge and up over the Marin Headlands. He climbed higher still circling the top of Mount Tamalpais and to the east peak dropping through the fog and into the snow falling gently around them. Padrig smiled at Rowans shout of glee. He glided downward finding a place to land. The hush of falling snow was beautiful. The wet snow coated the surrounding redwoods and added to the three or so inches that had already fallen.

He closely monitored Rowan who was trying to catch snowflakes on her tongue and laughing. She stretched her legs out in front of her, ankles crossed, on his neck as she lay back near his wings watching the snowfall. Her off key rendition of Let It Snow made him rumble with laughter. Padrig could feel her exhaustion. It was time to fly to their final destination. Still, she managed to protest leaving.

Padrig secured protection wards around her and told her to sleep for the part of the flight around St. Helena and above Clearlake. The area was peppered with hot springs. His destination was a secluded spot high in the mountainous hills. He scanned the area to be sure they were alone. It wouldn’t be wise to land as a dragon where one could be seen. There was a resort far below and several miles away. No demon activity in the area either.

“Rowan, tis time to awaken. We have to walk in from here, m’lady.”

Rowan unbuckled her harness, slid off Padrig, and leaned against him until she felt able to stand. As she stretched she looked around. She could see the soft lights of the resort below.

“Padrig, that’s more than a bit of a hike to the resort. Couldn’t you have gotten in closer?”


“Our room is up a bit further, m’lady, not down.”

“Have I mentioned I’m a bit reluctant to go caving given the past months?”


“There is no danger anywhere near.”

She shivered as she eyed the rock face in front of her. Rowan wrapped her arms around her as she scanned. “Are you sure?” 

“Rowan…”

She looked over her shoulder and watched as the subtle amethyst light suffused the body of the dragon and leaving a man in its place. There was no transformation with popping and stretching just a dragon one moment and a warrior the next. He stepped forward and enfolded her in his arms. “You are quite safe, m’lady.”

A soft nimbus of light enveloped them as she looked up into the striking face of the warrior holding her. His silky black hair was pulled back leaving only two of his braids hanging loose from his temples. Mustache framing his mouth and into the small beard on his chin. She felt like a windblown mop and he looked perfectly groomed. It wasn’t fair.

“While I might not be spun glass I’m still not up to full fighting strength my lord dragon. I’ll admit I’m a bit nervous still. It’s been a beautiful night Padrig. Thank you.”

“Ah, but the best is yet to come, a ghrá. Come.” He took her hand and led her up about twenty feet until they came to a solid rock face. He moved his open hand in a half circle to reveal an opening. They stepped through and he closed it before pulling her further along the dark path. He increased the light so she could see where she stepped. They traveled about a hundred yards when they came to smaller opening. A soft blue light showed inside. As they stepped through Rowan caught her breath. The pool was a blue and green. Steam lifted off the surface and while it wasn’t a full sized swimming pool it was large enough to play in. She stripped down to her long sleeve shirt as she walked to the edge, pausing to take in the fat candles burning in several candelabras. 

“Oh it’s beautiful Padrig. A bit of magic to light the way? And champagne?” She spun around laughing. “Oooh, we even have a nest of pillows to sleep in.” She sat on a cushion sitting near the pool and dropped her feet in the water. “Mmm, this is heaven. Where did all of this come from?”

“Dyfed helped with his magic to give us a safe refuge and light the pool for you. He also helped provide this.” He held up a large thermos.

“Coffee? You remembered coffee? Cream and sugar?” 

Padrig grinned and nodded. He opened the thermos and poured her a cup. She could smell the rich aroma from across the cave. Her mouth watered in anticipation. “Perfect.”

Rowan crinkled her brow as she looked up at him. “Hmmm.”

“What is it, m’lady?”

“There is only one thing missing from making this a perfect moment.”

Padrig looked around in puzzlement. “Missing?”

“Oh yes. A serious thing necessary for a faultless evening.” Rowan lifted the cup to her lips as she watched him mentally go through his checklist.

“You have on entirely too many clothes, my love, and you’re too far away.”

“Really?” A wicked grin appeared. “Easily remedied m’lady.” Padrig snapped his fingers and his clothes and her shirt disappeared.

“Handy trick. I like it.” She cocked her head to the side and watched the play of light over his impressive muscles as he stalked closer. He really was magnificent dressed in only a fall of hair over his shoulders and a smile quirking his mouth. He lifted her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing and stepped into the pool. Padrig let her slid down his body until her feet touched stone. Burying his hands in her hair, he kissed her.

“You are my heart, Rowan. My soul. Without you I wouldn’t want to live.” His lips softly kissed her forehead, her cheeks, before claiming her mouth.

“Tá grá agam duit,” he whispered.

“I love you too, my dragon.