by Hope Tarr
There was something about this guy. He was funny, sexy, a body so chiseled you would think it to be carved from marble. But still, as we walked along, something turned over in my stomach. Compared to him, I was just barely an adult. He was like a Gucci suit. Everything about it was perfect. Expertly crafted and tailored to fit just right. On paper, there were absolutely no flaws. But when you went to try it on your body, something was off. Perhaps the seam was at a weird angle. Maybe it just wasn’t cut for your body. Or maybe you just needed to grow into it a little more.
If I could just grow a little more, Sean might be the perfect suit for me. That is, if I could break his habit of wearing socks with sandals.
For as long as she can remember Katana Collins always had one of two things in hand—a pen or a camera. And now, after thirty years, she is lucky enough to have two of the best jobs ever—writing sexy romances and photographing sexy boudoir portraits. Katana’s debut novel, Soul Stripper, released in June 2013, followed soon after by its sequel, Soul Survivor, in September 2013. When not writing, reading, or photographing, you can find Katana with her husband and two dogs in Brooklyn, where she drinks copious amounts of coffee and red wine and actively volunteers her time and photography expertise to local animal shelters. Visit her online at www.katanacollins.com or follow her on Twitter @katanacollins.
Stuck on the Italian Boy
By Carole Bellacera
Frank swears he remembers the first time we met. I don’t think he does. It’s been thirty-nine years since that fateful morning in Crete when I first laid eyes on my future husband, the handsome Italian boy from the Bronx. I saw him as soon as he walked into the Iraklion Air Station clinic where I worked as a medical technician in the Air Force. He was just my type—tall and slender with curly black hair, a strong Roman nose, a sexy black moustache (all the rage in those days) and gorgeous soft-brown eyes. Even in his 1505s tan uniform with his name scrawled across a navy blue strip, he looked like a double for folk singer Jim Croce.
Bell-ack-er-a. I sounded it out in my head. What a weird name. But he sure was cute.
I knew why he was here. He’d come in for a flu shot—and lucky me, I was the one administering it. Sensing he was nervous, I gave him a reassuring smile. Typical guy. Trying to act like an injection was no big deal, but I could see just a glimmer of anxiety in those velvety brown eyes.
“Don’t worry,” I said, rubbing a cotton ball soaked with alcohol over his olive-skinned bicep. “You might feel a little pinch.”
He barely grimaced when the needle went in, and just like that, it was over. I placed a Band-Aid over the tiny puncture hole and gave his arm a pat. “Good as new. It might feel a little achy for a while.”
He gave me a sweet smile and spoke with a thick New York accent. “The best shot I ever had. Thanks, Red.”
I watched him go, wondering if I’d ever see him again.
To this day, I really don’t believe Frank remembers me giving him that shot. He denies it, of course, joking that he’s been “stuck on me” ever since, but I think that’s only because I told him we’d met before.
The story he remembers—and the one that will live on as an eternal joke with our friends and family—is the story of how we met the second time.
Fast-forward a couple of weeks from the flu shot meeting. On a warm spring night in April, I left my dorm with a girlfriend and decided to check out an impromptu party in progress between the two dorms. Boyfriendless at the time, I kind of automatically swept the crowd in search of a “potential”—and stopped on Frank.
I recognized him immediately. Feeling unusually brave, I parked myself next to him and immediately engaged him in conversation. Oh, how I loved his sexy New York accent. Terribly exotic for a girl who’d grown up in the cornfields of Indiana. But it wasn’t just his good looks and accent that charmed me. He was a genuinely nice guy—easy to talk to and, best of all, he made me laugh.
I was so engrossed in Frank and his lively conversation that, at first, I didn’t notice the commotion around us. Too late, I looked up just in time to see a flash of bare skin disappear around the corner of the building. Everyone around us had burst out laughing, pointing in that direction. Suddenly, I realized what I’d missed.
“My first streakers!” I gasped. I turned to Frank accusingly. “And I missed them because of you!”
Frank looked properly contrite. “Sorry. I’ll get them to do it again.”
I didn’t think Frank was serious, but before I could say a word, he scrambled up from the ground and disappeared around the corner of the dorm. A few minutes later, I heard a peal of shrill laughter. I whipped my head around, and there they were: the two streakers, as naked as babes, running like mad demons down the span of lawn between dorms. The laughter intensified, and my eyes widened. A third streaker had joined the other two. He was tall and slender, with curly black hair and a moustache. Kind of Jim Croce-looking.
Oddly enough, Frank missed the whole thing, or so he said. He reappeared at my side a few minutes later as if nothing had happened.
“Thanks,” I said drily. “You didn’t have to go to so much trouble to impress me.”
He shrugged. “Well, I couldn’t let you miss your first streakers.”
What could I say? He’d done it for me.
That was the beginning of our relationship. It’s been thirty-nine years now, and we have two wonderful, grown children and two grandsons. Frank doesn’t streak anymore, but that doesn’t mean he’s stopped getting naked. And I don’t mean in the ordinary sense that we all get naked.
A few years ago, my sister, Kathy, was visiting, and she jokingly complained about the curtains in the guest room being too sheer. After she left, Frank said something about buying new curtains, and I brushed him off, insisting Kathy was overly sensitive, and the curtains were just fine.
“I’ll prove it to you,” Frank said, with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Give me a minute, then go out into the driveway and look up at the windows. You tell me if the curtains are too sheer.”
I obediently headed outside into the darkness. When I got to the end of the driveway, I turned to look up at the guest windows—and my eyes widened. I began to laugh. I laughed so hard my knees buckled and tears began to stream down my face. I laughed so hard my belly ached, and I swear I almost peed my pants. (Actually, I think I did pee my pants…just a little.)
There, through the curtains, I saw my husband, buck-naked, jumping up and down on the bed like a five-year-old. Even as I type this, I’ve got tears in my eyes. Just the memory sends me cackling. That’s my Frank. He always keeps me laughing.
My neighbors across the street didn’t witness the antics of my husband that night, but they sure know about the story. It was too good not to share. (And guess what? He was right—the curtains were too sheer.)
I feel blessed that Frank walked into the clinic that day, and doubly blessed that I had the courage to sit down next to him at the party and strike up a conversation. And I never, ever forget what a lucky girl I am to have found the man of my dreams—one who is loving and supportive and fun and sweet. And who still makes me laugh! It works the other way, too.
A couple of weeks ago, while house-hunting in Myrtle Beach, we saw a home on a golf course and noticed it didn’t have a fence to separate our yard from the fairway. As we drove away with our realtor at the wheel, Frank suggested we get a radio-activated pet-control system that administers a little shock through the dog’s collar when he gets too close to the boundaries.
“Not only would it stop Cooper from going into the fairway,” Frank said with a wry grin, “it would also stop golfers from coming into our yard.”
I didn’t get the joke. I thought about that a moment and then said in all seriousness, “But how would we get the golfers to wear the collar?”
Well, it’s a good thing Frank wasn’t at the wheel or he would’ve driven off the road. He and our realtor must have laughed for ten minutes straight. (I’m pretty sure our realtor, Steve,
had tears in his eyes.)
I think laughter is one of the best recipes for a happy marriage. Maybe I’m just one of the lucky ones, but every day when I hear the garage door opening, I still feel a little flutter of excitement. My honey is home!
No matter which “first met” story I tell—the rather humdrum one about the flu shot or the fun one about the streaking incident, one thing is for sure. Frank is stuck on me.
And I’m stuck on Frank.
Carole Bellacera is the author of seven books of women’s fiction. Her latest novel, Lily of the Springs, is the recipient of an Honorable Mention Award for Genre Fiction in the 2013 Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards. Her first novel, Border Crossings, a hardcover published by Forge Books, was a 2000 RITA® Award nominee for Best Romantic Suspense and Best First Book and for the 2000 Virginia Literary Award in Fiction. Carole’s short fiction and non-fiction have appeared in magazines such as Woman’s World, The Star, Endless Vacation and The Washington Post. In addition, her work has appeared in various anthologies such as Kay Allenbaugh’s Chocolate for a Woman’s Heart, Chocolate for a Couple’s Heart and Chicken Soup for Couples. Visit Carole online at www.carolebellacera.com.
Once Upon a Dream
By Delilah Marvelle
Nothing ever came easy to me. I was one of those girls who always had to fight for everything I ever wanted in life, including respect. Looking back, I’m glad for it. It made me into who I am today, and more important, it tossed me straight into the arms of my incredible husband, Marc. Even though he and I met when I was only seventeen, let me preface by saying that at seventeen, I was actually closer to being forty at heart. It goes back to that whole nothing-ever-came-easy-to-me sort of thing.
When my father remarried, I soon found myself living with a stepmother who genuinely hated me for reasons I never understood. At the time, nobody knew my stepmother was bipolar. She hadn’t been diagnosed. Well before any diagnosis, I knew something wasn’t right. Locking a kid in a basement with no lights for hours at a time, shoving a kid down the stairs for punishment, beating a kid with the metal part of the belt until blood covered it were only some of the acts of physical and mental abuse I endured over the years. Growing up with a woman who lashed out at everyone and everything is what ultimately made me into a writer. I began seeing a different world beyond the fairy tales my real mother used to read to me as a child. It made me realize that evil stepmothers were, in fact, real. And they did a hell of a lot more than keep you from attending a ball. They kept you from believing in yourself. They also kept you from wanting more for yourself.
I firmly believe that you can’t write about life if you haven’t lived it. And the same applies to real love. Shortly before meeting my future husband, I was at a turning point in my life. I was starting my first year of college, and even though I wanted to get away from my family and the craziness and abuse it brought, I couldn’t afford to live on my own. So I dealt with it. But I had a plan. One that didn’t include a man. I believed the only person capable of bailing me out of the house was me, and I knew the only way to do it was by getting a few side jobs, saving money and getting a degree.
Destiny had other plans.
A girlfriend of mine invited me to her Halloween party. It was outside of town, and I didn’t know anyone else who’d be attending. My options that night were to either study or to party. I’m usually a good girl capable of turning away parties during exams. Really. But for some reason, I felt like I needed to go. It was like my gut kept telling me that something incredible was about to happen. Yeah, I know. At a Halloween party. The writer in me ran with it.
I went into a vintage-clothing store and bought a black velvet dress and some old jewelry. Given my love for all things historical, I went as a Victorian vampire. I expected to meet new people and have a good time, but my gut feeling kept chewing away at me, telling me someone special was about to happen. I was going to meet someone. Someone meant for me.
The party was in full swing. The music was blaring. People were shouting over each other while eating. I met a lot of nice people, but as the night went on, I began to realize I had deluded myself into thinking that special someone would be walking into my life during a Halloween party. I’ve done it to myself before. It’s that annoying hopeful sense of being ready to share your life with someone who will be there for you no matter what. As the night started coming to a close, I asked myself why the heck I had blown off studying for my exams for…well…nothing.
And then a small group of guys walked through the door. They were well over late, and they were damn proud of it. My gaze veered to one of them, and I’m telling you, my heart stopped. People say there’s no such thing as love at first sight. My take on that? Pfft. Take a number. It’s real.
He was beautiful. His dark brown hair hung into his amber eyes, and it was obvious he forgot to shave. His scruffy appearance didn’t match the military Russian uniform he was wearing, and although the rest of the guys with him were loud and obnoxious, he had a quiet smile and soft-spoken tone. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. And neither could all the other girls around me.
Within minutes, he was surrounded, and I missed my chance to say hello. I spent the rest of the night watching him from a distance. I kept waiting for a chance to introduce myself. It never came.
Some people were starting to leave, and I decided to get something to eat. As I turned away from the food table with my mouth full of Doritos, I found him standing right behind me. He smiled, and every Dorito in my mouth turned to mush. He leaned in and started talking to me as if he’d been waiting to say hello himself all night.
I was never one to get nervous around guys, seeing as I grew up a tomboy and most of my friends were guys, but this guy—Marc—made me realize I was dealing with someone I’d met before. Someone I’d met with my heart. There’s that Disney song from Sleeping Beauty called “Once Upon a Dream,” and my mind was singing it. The more we talked, the more I realized how genuine he was. And how genuine my own reaction to him was. Yes, he was beautiful, but that wasn’t what drew me in. What drew me in was the way he looked at me. It was as if I was the only person he was genuinely interested in getting to know. It made me feel special. And before I knew it, we were dancing together, laughing together and hanging out together as if we’d known each other our entire lives. We eventually exchanged numbers. And then he left.
I went home that night feeling something was different. It was an eerie feeling. Usually, when I crawled into bed, I felt like I had only myself and the stories I wrote in my head. I started writing a different story. A story about him and me. That same night, in my diary, I wrote the first thing that came into my head. I wrote: I met the man I’m going to marry. (Really. I did.)
Because we lived an hour apart from each other and the Internet didn’t exist, we started writing weekly letters. I was always running to the mailbox, waiting for his next letter. He became the person I poured my soul out to. And soon, I began pouring out more than I’d ever shared with anyone. About my stepmother and how miserable she made my life. Marc reignited my belief in not only myself but the belief that good people not only really did exist, but that they deserved a happily ever after.
My stepmother, not to mention my own father, made it difficult for us to see each other. I think they began to realize how serious Marc and I were getting, and in their minds, it was a problem. They kept telling me I was moving too fast. They kept telling me I’d end up pregnant and that they’d kick me to the street for it. What they didn’t realize was that, after everything I’d been through with them, their threats were meaningless. I was being genuinely loved by someone special. And I knew I had to cherish what I had found before my family broke it.
Even though I was only nineteen years old, I packed my stuff one night and took off with Marc to get married in Arizona, where some of his family was. It was the best thing I ever did. Nineteen years later, I’m still married to that soft-spoken man and have two awesome kids who make me beli
eve that love at first sight is everything it should be: real.
Delilah Marvelle is the winner of RT BOOK Reviews Reviewer’s Choice for Best Sensual Historical Romance of the Year. Booklist named her historical romance Forever and a Day a TOP 10 Romance of 2012. When she isn’t writing, she’s digging through historically inappropriate research books that make her poor husband blush. You can visit her at her website at www.delilahmarvelle.com or her blog, which explores the naughtier side of history, at www.delilahmarvelle.blogspot.com.
A Leap of Faith Straight to the Altar
By Sonali Dev
At sixteen I knew exactly who I was going to marry. At twenty-three I realized that wasn’t how things were going to turn out. When it takes you your entire young adulthood to realize that your soul mate isn’t, well, your soul mate, it’s not exactly like you’re heartbroken or anything. What you are is ready for a fresh start. Hungry for it, even. And bloody determined that this time your soul mate is going to snap in place against your half of your collective soul and stay there. And this time you’re ready to do whatever it takes to make sure that the fit is tight and unbreakable. But that wasn’t quite the answer I could give my parents, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles when they asked what exactly I was looking for. How do you tell those who changed your diapers and consequently earned the right to live vicariously through your youth that permanency, constancy, essentially a guarantee was what you were seeking, when “handsome, rich and smart” was so much more exciting, not to mention easier to look for.