Researcher Tracy Price is trying to find a dead writer and forget a live musician.
Rock star Jesse Elliot is sure Tracy is demented, and she believes he wouldn’t recognize the truth in a lineup of Bibles. Their only hope is to stop trying to read each other’s minds and start speaking their own.
Anyone who has ever had a crush, felt betrayed, or been forgiven will appreciate Tracy’s struggle to claim the life she never knew she wanted.
Jesse raked some strands of his blue-black hair away from his forehead. The hair fell right back onto the shoreline of his face like a wave on a beach. I thought of the cliché movie scene where the action cuts to an agitated ocean to symbolize sex. I cleared my throat, and ordered myself to get a grip.
Instead, I surprised us both by asking him my name. “Tracy Price?”
“Yes.” He confirmed my identity. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He was all-business; I was all over the place.
This was how a romance novel would begin, and, as the designated hero, he was free to relax and be two-dimensional for now. I’d provide the script because I thought I knew the genre, but I had it wrong from the start because, on second thought, he was from another planet. He had to be. And if this was science fiction, anything could happen. Aliens are tricky.
When he sat next to me I wanted to leap up and run away. Instead, I asked, “How do you like Albuquerque?” Very original, Tracy. What I wondered was, How does it feel to look like you do?
“I like it,” he said, answering both my questions. “I like it so far.”
I felt a surge of power. “I bet. And how long are you staying?” Or, more to the point, would it be too forward of me to sit on your lap?
“I can’t say yet. Maybe six weeks? This was kind of an unexpected trip.” Bingo. Both questions addressed.
This was working. Let me know when you decide about the lap thing. I covered my mouth for a fake cough to clear my head.
We were silent. I was contemplating his perfection. Maybe he was, too.
As a journalist, Patrice Locke wrote a lot of stories with unhappy and even tragic endings.
Facts are facts, and a writer doesn’t mess with facts.
But fiction is another world. Patrice began writing novels, where she can control the endings and make them as happy as she wants. The best thing about fiction, she says, is having time to think before her characters speak, so they can say the things most of us only come up with after the perfect moment has passed.
She loves to write, read, and watch romantic comedies where life always turns out the way it should. Her only obsessive relationships are with semicolons and Oxford commas.
Though she doesn’t like to brag, Patrice is an award-winning artist. She won a gold and diamond watch when she was 13 for decorating a turkey drumstick bone to look like Batman. Alas, that was her last recognition in the fine arts.
Patrice lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, not far from her daughter Kaitlin, eight hours from her son Trevor, and way too many miles from amazing grandsons Alexander and Zackary.
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