Tuesday, February 20, 2018

#TellTaleTuesday #AWifeForJayPrescott #ContemporaryRomance

From the moment Jay Prescott meets his new employee Lillian Ross, she turns his orderly life upside down. 


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EXCERPT: A Wife For Jay Prescott


He breathed in the faint aroma which reminded him of a walk in a rose garden. Jay shook his head and walked farther into the carpeted lounge.

Obviously, he still suffered from jet lag if he allowed something this trivial to distract him. After a grueling three-week schedule in New York, where he’d battled record snowfall and frigid temperatures, Jay wasn’t sure which he’d looked forward to more -- returning to his regular schedule or to Oregon’s misty sunshine.

He looked around the corner expecting to see someone by the row of sinks. At first, the rest room appeared vacant; then the rustling sound of a paper bag caught his attention.

"Steve, is that you?" Jay called out to his partner.

"I thought I locked the door."

The voice from the last stall was muffled, but it was definitely a woman’s voice.  He moved closer and noticed the nylon-covered ankles, well-turned ankles, the best-looking ankles he’d seen in some time. Mesmerized, he watched her kick off one black pump. Before he could ask her why she was in the men’s room, he heard the sound of a zipper. Jay froze. Proper etiquette would call for him to leave, but he couldn’t tear his gaze off her wiggling toes as they celebrated their freedom.

"I’m sorry. No one was in here and I thought I’d be finished before anyone noticed. I’ll be out in just a minute."

Jay tried to recognize her voice, but she sounded as if she held something between her teeth. "Why are you changing in the men’s room?"

"I went jogging this morning."

"That doesn’t explain why you’re here." Jay crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Oh. The door to the women’s was locked with two "Out of Order" signs on it, and I have a meeting in less than ten minutes."

Ten minutes. With a glance at his watch, Jay swore under his breath--he also had a meeting.

Could the mysterious woman be the one Steve Wilkes hired while Jay was in New York? His partner had been evasive on the phone--something about a fresh new face and how she’d be good for the company.

Unable to curtail his curiosity any longer, Jay asked, "Are you the new personnel director?"

"Umm-hmm. I’ve only been here two weeks, and already I’m giving a presentation--Steve insisted."

Jay watched as she slipped her foot back into her shoe. He wondered how old she was. Judging from her light, breathless voice, she sounded rather young.

What an unusual way to meet an employee for the first time, behind a closed door in the men’s room no less! Although he hadn’t interviewed her, Jay didn’t doubt her qualifications. Steve had an uncanny feel for people. He had a reputation for hiring the right person for the right job.

Apparently she didn’t allow small obstacles to stand in her way, or she wouldn’t be changing in the men’s room. Instead she found solutions to her problems--he liked that trait. "I’m sure you’ll do fine."

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

The stall door opened, startling Jay. He stepped back so fast his feet started to slip out from under him. To prevent himself from falling he jerked back hitting his head on the wall. Tilting his head down, he rubbed the painful spot.

"That must hurt. Are you all right?" She moved closer.

His gaze traveled up the ankles he had secretly admired moments ago to her beige linen skirt and a white silk blouse. Not even her loose fitting blouse could hide her trim figure.  Her hand fiddling with her pearl necklace drew his attention. She had a good overall professional appearance--another plus for her. He watched her push back the thick spectacles that started to slide halfway down her nose. Her gray hair was stylishly short.

Gray hair? Heavy wrinkles flanked her mouth and creased her forehead. Stunned, Jay simply stared at her. He’d been admiring the legs of a woman who appeared to be as old as his grandmother.

"There’s a small button on the top of my blouse that I can’t reach. Would you fasten it for me?" She turned her back to him. "These old hands don’t cooperate like they used to," she explained.

He considered her request unusual, yet it didn’t surprise him. Nothing about their first meeting had been ordinary. Jay shrugged his shoulders and moved closer. He fumbled with the tiny button before it slipped through the loop. When his knuckles brushed against the soft skin at the nape of her neck, Jay jerked his hands back. He’d admired not only the older woman’s legs but also her silky skin.

"See that wasn’t so bad, now was it." She slipped on her suit jacket then retrieved a shopping bag and burgundy briefcase from the stall. A mischievous smile played across her lips. "You’re a good-looking young man. I bet you’ve helped a few women get dressed." She elbowed him in the side.

Amazed at her outspokenness, he continued to stare. So much for secretly admiring her. Jay’s mouth felt dry. He muttered something he hoped sounded acceptable.

He’d become so engrossed in their conversation he hadn’t given her lack of privacy a second thought. Or how she’d feel about it. Feeling guilty, Jay was at a loss for words to explain his inconsiderate behavior.

"Have a nice day," she said.


ALSO BY ROSEMARY INDRA


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BLURB:

When Miranda Cummins borrows a friend’s cabin to finish writing her long overdue book, she’s surprised to find the one-room retreat already occupied by Kevin Mathews. Though she feels a spontaneous attraction for Kevin, Miranda has recently escaped a controlling husband and isn’t ready for a long-term relationship.

Unsatisfied with his occupation, Kevin is at a crossroads. Miranda understands and encourages him to look at the direction his life is going. Fired up by her encouragement, Kevin returns to Forest Ridge to resume his firefighting career.

When Miranda is threatened by her ex-husband, Kevin realizes he will do anything to protect her. Miranda has shown Kevin a new passion for life. Can he fan the flames of passion into an Everlasting Love?



Monday, February 19, 2018

#MysteryMonday #HeyJoeyJournal







August 17, 2012

Hey, Journal,

That “Dear journal” shtick is overused, so I’ll address you with the word “hey.” Hey, journal. I usually write exclusively on scraps of paper. Underneath my bed is my literature’s habitat and the paragraphs are seldom about anything. Last year, I discussed career goals with my high school’s counselor. Once my writing aspirations were revealed, Counselor became giddy and asked about my writing style. She said, “I’d love to hear about it, Rosie.”

“It’s disorganized,” I said. Then she handed me this ginormous journal and I witnessed a disgusting “I’m-a-cool-adult” wink.

This is the first time I’ve cracked you open.

Time seems to have decelerated. The slowing of time is the only gift August 2012 has coughed up. There’s been a drought, among other eyesores. I’m beneath our backyard’s oak tree, its gargantuan arms stretching far, shade encompassing the entire lawn. Many leaves are dehydrated. It’s as pleasant to lie beneath as Magic Mike is to watch. Allow me to explain that analogy. The film’s previews had me expecting a rollicking rom-com...something less serious. It differed from the ads. Still, every scene featuring scantily clad men made it worth the cash. That’s what happened with this shade. I’m below it, experiencing a full body itch, but it could be worse. Due to lacking rain, the ground isn’t summer turf in the slightest. Imagine wearing a pantsuit crafted out of hay and sandpaper. The shade is nice, though. Makes me able to bear my eyes being open.

Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick. I kid you not, as I placed the period after “open,” a bird landed in my eye line and inched toward me. Soon, it was atop this journal. I thought, Birds are flighty. Timid. Not this one. Its eyes were a familiar mess. I was confronted by the undeniable fact that birds were my dad’s favorite animal. I blinked, eyelids capturing wetness and holding it hostage. Moisture subsided and the bird was all kinds of nowhere.

I wonder what it would be like to sprout wings. To be gone. My pencil is begging me to release it from my monstrous grip and my legs are screaming, “Let us run far away, Rosie.”

I’ll do what I do best and let my impulses win. Run until I get scared and retreat. Run until I realize it’s not the same as flying. Run.

August 18, 2012

Hey, Journal,

I’m not counting the days that have passed since it happened. When a person starts counting the days following an event, it becomes part of a timeline. Then, by consequence, it is cemented in reality. I’m fortunate. My brain is still too immobilized to visualize random numbers floating in space. I’m unable to make numbers relate to each other, events, time or anything at all. Because of this, I don’t know how long it’s been since he died. It’s messed up, but I prefer this ambivalent uncertainty.

I’ll speak of something I know for sure. Today’s bike ride destroyed me. August is going too fast. It’s only the 18th, but it feels like the month is nearing its conclusion. The weather is far too chilly, honestly. Deflated bike tires carried me down the sidewalk of my street. I normally ride in the road, but I haven’t been in the mood to care about the well-being of pedestrians lately. Those tires were spinning, moving like the earth’s orbit around the sun, constant and circular, at least seemingly so. Home was in sight. My eyes were on the trees above. I was gliding. Gliding. The leaves were rustling. The world was unsettled. God attached a handle to the South Pole, stuffed the globe full of beads and shook this planet like a giant rattle. God’s infant-like cries resonated and the wheels came to a screeching halt, all because the malicious fates placed a tiny, dauntless bird on the sidewalk of Kale Avenue. I ran over the motionless bird. Accidentally. Then I pried my fluttering hand from my mouth and threw my wheels into the street. Seconds later, a police car demolished the bike and veered to the roadside.

Fun.

The uniformed man shot out of his vehicle, completely uncentered. There was a restricting quality to his aura, accompanied by an unprecedented ability to snap. Light brown is the color of a traditional rubber band, and when it comes to auras, it’s a color associated with discouragement. His body language was discouraging me the second he exited the car.

No, I’m not a psychic. I don’t see colors framing the forms of people. However, I do see people for who they are and enjoy describing this reality I perceive with the same language aura seers use. I heard all about auras growing up under the care of parents who lived to study metaphysical concepts. Much of the gobbledygook they taught me is too much for my logical brain to handle. Both my parents underwent past life regression, for example. Listening to my dad talk about his life as a Vietnamese peasant girl creeped me out. But auras? I was somehow able to get on board.

While laying eyes on me, the uniformed man eased. He’s one of the cops who came when my dad’s body wasn’t doing things it should be doing. Like, you know…living. I was the girl the cops found in the disheveled garage, after I found… Nope. No. Nope.

AUTHOR BIO

Colleen June Glatzel is a writer from Waukesha, WI. She writes mostly fiction, but is interested in exploring other categories now that her first book, Hey, Joey Journal, is published. When Colleen isn’t writing, she deals antiques, acts, performs improv comedy, makes collages, paints and spends time with her family.



KEYWORDS

teenagers, mental illness, suicide, Bipolar Disorder, journaling

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