Imaginary Men

Hello! I’m Margaret Ethridge, and I obsessed with imaginary men.

Seriously. Is there anything better than an imaginary man? I think not. Imaginary men are perfect. They always say the right thing. They seldom sulk or pout. They never leave whiskers coating the sink or their socks on the couch.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore my husband. He’s funny, charming, sexy, and sweet…. Whew! Okay, he left the room. Where was I? Oh yeah ““ imaginary men….

There have been a number of imaginary men in my life. Here are a few that have earned a special place in my heart:

Rhett Butler ““ Gone with the Wind – A rebel in every sense of the word, Rhett was the first bad boy in my life. I fell in love with Captain Butler at a young age and our love has only grown deeper over the years. Observe my hands, my dear…. Guh!

Fitzwilliam Darcy ““ Pride and Prejudice – All I want is a chance to tell Mr. Darcy how ardently I admire and love him. I wouldn’t mind if Colin Firth wanted to send a little of that smolder in my direction.

Luke Danes ““ The Gilmore Girls ““ There’s nothing I love more than a good rant from this flannel-clad, backwards baseball cap wearing diner man. Who doesn’t hunger for a heaping helping of sexy with a side of snark?

Jamie Fraser ““ Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series ““ Now there’s a braw, bonnie lad. What I wouldn’t give for just one peek beneath that Scotsman’s kilt!

Imaginary men embody the very best and absolute worst of every man we know. Would we put up with their shenanigans in real life? Probably not. Let’s face it; these guys all have some serious issues.

Rhett? He’s a cocky bully. Mr. Darcy? A snob. Luke Danes has commitment issues and a hair-trigger temper. Jamie Fraser ““ Och! The man is an unholy mess.

Still, that’s part of the reason women find these men attractive. Who wouldn’t want to be the one they turn to when their hurts need healing, their tattered egos require mending, and their passionate natures get the best of them?

I love imaginary men. I love creating them. As an author, one of the biggest challenges and tantalizing thrills is creating a character who tugs at the reader’s heartstrings. I’m in love with every one of my heroes ““ flaws and all.

In my novel, Paramour, two wonderfully imperfect men vie for Camellia Stafford’s heart.

Frank DeLuca is the gruff, grumbly guy who loves Cam as much as she loves him. In creating Frank, I borrowed bits of his crankiness from Luke Danes and mixed in a little of Mr. Darcy’s sense of propriety for good measure. The perfect man, right? Well, Frank is also kind of … dead.

Brad Mitchum, on the other hand, is very much alive. Like Captain Butler, Brad truly enjoys Cam’s company, and is willing to indulge her every whim – to a point. He’s driven, passionate, and utterly devoted to the woman he loves, much like Jamie Fraser.

Now you know why I love both Frank and Brad. It’s a good thing I love falling in love.

How about you? Have you ever fallen in love with an imaginary man? How’s that working out for you? Tell me every little detail. I love a juicy story!

****

Here’s an excerpt from Paramour. I hope you enjoy it!

Camellia Stafford has never been alone in her room. For twenty years, she’s been engaged in a fierce power struggle with her bedroom’s previous tenant, Frank DeLuca, the ghost trapped in the light fixture above her bed.

Caustic and cranky, Frank has one soft spot””Cam. Over the years, their feelings for one another have evolved from grudging friendship to an enduring love that burns white-hot until Frank puts his feelings for Cam on ice.

When she suffers the loss of her beloved father, Cam returns home to say good-bye, and confront her feelings for Frank. She finds an unexpected shoulder to lean on in neighbor, Bradley Mitchum. Cam falls hard and fast for the handsome ad man’s charming smile and passion-ate nature, but Brad’s easy-going exterior masks a steely backbone tempered by adversity.

Now Cam must choose”” Is her heart strong enough to determine which dream could lead to a love that will last a lifetime?

****

Cam set the bottle aside and straightened, reaching for the handle on the refrigerator door. She inspected its contents while the cleanser permeated the putrid pile, opting for a bottle of beer over the out-of-date orange juice in the door.

She ran the pad of her thumb over the dimpled edges of the cap and took a long pull from the bottle. Moving to the screen door, Cam noticed that the grass in the backyard was already too long. The flowered heads of spring weeds poked through the scraggly blades. She picked at the label on the bottle with her thumbnail, rolling the cap against the palm of her free hand. The motor of the weed whacker cut out, and suddenly the demanding chirps of nesting birds took over.

She glanced at her neighbor’s yard expecting to find Mr. Kelly storing his lawn implements in the detached garage. Instead, Cam sputtered, choking on a swallow of beer as she admired the gleaming golden-brown skin of a nicely muscled back. She thumped the heel of her hand against her chest.

“Good for you, Mrs. K,” she murmured admiringly.

The man bent, disappearing from view below the fence-line. “Oh, no! Don’t go, you pretty, pretty thing,” she breathed, moving closer to the door for a better view. When he straightened again, she smiled. “Much better.”

The smile slipped a notch when the man turned toward the fence. She took a hasty step back to avoid being detected and cocked her head to keep him in sight, drinking in the details. A thin line of toffee-colored hair rose from the waistband of a pair of blessedly low-slung cargo shorts. Her smile returned full force as she saw his long fingers curl around a belt loop and hike the shorts higher.

“Too late,” she whispered into her beer bottle.

The smooth hair on his stomach gave way to a dusting of wiry curls on his chest. They shone with the sweat glistening at his throat, trickling over the long, sleek muscles lining his shoulders. His biceps bunched when he hoisted the grass trimmer over the fence, depositing it in the too-tall grass of her yard.

Cam took another step back, her brow puckering in confusion as the latch on the gate between the Kelly’s property and hers gave way with a loud chink. Moments later, a bright green lawn mower rolled through the gate propelled by its luscious lawn jockey.

He closed the gate with what appeared to be a practiced flick of his wrist and bent to unscrew the gas cap on the mower.

As soon as she could gather her wits, Cam punched the lever on the screen door, sending it sailing wide open. “Excuse me!”

The door slammed against the house, capturing his attention. His head jerked up, and his eyes widened when he spotted her. Undeterred, Cam took a step forward. Pretty creature or not, the guy didn’t belong in her yard. “Excuse me, what are you doing?”

The man straightened then glanced around the yard as if the answer should be obvious. “Well, I was gonna mow,” he began, a sardonic smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Why? You got a better idea?”

“Yes.” Cam shook her head, regretting the word the minute it slipped from her lips.

Yes.

She closed her eyes, blocking out the echo of Frank’s voice. Opening her eyes again, Cam fought to keep her voice even while she pinned him with a glare. “Why do you think you’re going to mow my yard?” she asked stiffly.

Planting his hands on his hips, he scanned the yard again. “I always mow your dad’s yard, Camellia,” he answered, his voice deep and fathomless.

Cam reared back, trying to place the voice. There was something familiar about his face. “You do?”

“Well, for the past couple of years,” he amended.

“You have?”

“No. I just made that up so I’d be free to roam around people’s yards showing off my equipment.” Cam’s lips quirked at his choice of words, and he held up one hand to stop her. “Mower. Weed Eater. Lawn care equipment,” he clarified with a mischievous smile.

“Uh huh.” She smiled and leaned against the rail of the back steps. “You must be the guy who bought the Mitchum’s house.”

His smile morphed into a grin. “Yeah, I’m the guy.” He moved closer to the steps, wiping his hands ineffectually on his grass-covered shorts. “And you are Camellia Stafford.”

“Cam,” she corrected, extending her hand. His fingers closed around hers. A thousand volts of electricity jolted her body. She blinked, staring into his earnest green eyes. “You’re Bradley,” she murmured. A puzzled frown creased her brow, and her voice grew tentative. “Bradley Mitchum?”

“Brad,” he answered, a warm smile lighting his features.

“Whoa. Bradley Mitchum. You bought your parents’ house?” she asked, incredulous.

He laughed, the deep rumble of it vibrating low in her stomach as she carefully extricated her hand from his. “I’m not sure if I should be more insulted by the sneer I hear in your voice or the fact you didn’t recognize me. We grew up two houses apart.”

“And a few years,” she added, instantly defensive.

He tossed her a rueful smile and shrugged sheepishly. “I’d have known you anywhere, Camellia.”

Feeling oddly short of breath, she whispered, “Cam.”

“Cam,” he repeated low and soft.

“Brad.” She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “You do look a lot different. You used to be all tall and gangly.”

His eyebrows rose. “You mean I shrank?”

Warmed by his playful tone, she gave him a deliberate once over. “Well, you aren’t gangly anymore.”

“Thanks for noticing.”

He approached slowly, and for a split second Cam wondered if Animal Planet was secretly filming in her backyard. He was sleek and stealthy, his footsteps cushioned by the tall grass, his emerald eyes fixed on her like she was his prey. The sun lit a faint white scar running vertically under the copper-brown curls on his chest, and she itched to run her finger along its path.

He bent his knee, resting one foot on the bottom step and returned the favor, those cat’s eyes taking in every detail as they swept upwards. When they came to light on her face, she had to blink back the urge to confirm she was still dressed.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” he said, his voice deep and soft. “I liked him a lot.”

Taken aback by the swift change in subject, Cam had to shift her brain into overdrive to catch up. “Thanks. He…uh, he must have liked you, too. I mean, he didn’t let just anyone mess with his lawn.”

Brad chuckled softly, and Cam’s gaze dropped to his chest. Her mouth watered as she eyed the glimmering beads of sweat clinging to the hollow of his throat. “I had to audition using Mrs. Kelly’s lawn, of course,” he explained, gesturing toward the fence.

“Of course.”

He leaned in, pressing his weight onto his bent knee. “I’ll tell you a little secret I discovered.”

“Oh?”

“Your dad hated yard work.”

It was Cam’s turn to laugh. “You’ll never make it as a spy.”

“I’m serious. The flowers, yes,” he conceded, nodding toward the front of the house, “but not the yard.”

Her mind raced, a thousand little details about her dad filtering through her brain. She sifted through them, looking for a clue, any clue, to substantiate Brad’s claim. Cam realized she could come up with about a dozen clues too easily. She stared at him for a moment then frowned as she looked past his shoulder at one of the overgrown camellia bushes.

“You might be right,” she murmured.

Brad pulled back, hiking his shorts up again and resting his hands on his hips. “I guess I should get to it. I thought I’d clean things up. I figure you’ll have family around this week”””

“It’s just me,” Cam answered without thinking. When his face darkened with concern, she shook her head and tried to smile. “I do have an uncle. Barney,” she quickly added. “He was my mom’s brother. Is, I mean. He’s still alive””lives in Wichita, of all places.” She cringed, and a nervous laugh escaped her.

“Wichita, huh?”

“He won’t be coming. He’s probably about eighty now, and he and Daddy…” She trailed off, wishing she’d wadded the paper towels she’d left on the kitchen floor into her mouth instead. “It’ll be a small service,” she stated flatly.

“Visitation?”

Cam nodded. “Tomorrow evening. No funeral, though. Just a graveside thing.”

“I see.”

“He had it all planned out.” Her voice snagged, and she clamped her mouth shut tight. Turning back toward the house, Cam blinked back a hot rush of tears.

“He liked a good plan,” Brad said, his voice smooth and gentle. “I used to get a kick out of the garden diagrams.”

A laugh bubbled around the sob caught in her chest. “On graph paper, no less.”

“A four square cube equaled twelve inches of bed space.”

“Every bulb recorded in detail.” Cam smiled at the glistening golden god staring at her, puzzled by the blunt admiration shining in his eyes. Running a self-conscious hand over her hair, she asked, “Do you want a beer?”

“More than my next breath,” he replied, favoring her with a brilliant smile. “Will you keep it cold for me? Until I’m done mowing?”

She edged to the door, having a hard time dragging her gaze from him. “Will do.”

“I’ll be there, by the way,” he called after her.

Cam froze, her fingers curling around the handle of the screen door. She turned back to him and spotted the color rising high on his cheekbones.

“Tomorrow, I mean. I’m sure a lot of people will…but just so you know, I’ll be there too.”

Cam stared at him for a second, arrested by his firm, quiet statement. “You will?”

“Yes.”

She tensed, struck by the power of a single word spoken clearly and distinctly. Inclining her head, she gave him a tremulous smile and dashed into the house.

Cam took three steadying breaths, glaring at the paper towels strewn on the floor and trying to figure out exactly how a simple acknowledgment of intent could leave her completely shaken.

The screen door slammed. Frank heard a lawn mower sputter to life. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on Cam’s every movement. He tried to will her into the room, silently begging her to turn on the light. They needed to talk about those damn books.

Frank passed the day trying to figure out what to do about Cam’s notebook. He also needed to get those little locked journals stashed at the back of the drawer. He knew he had to do something, anything, to make them disappear. It galled him that she was still writing about him, and there still wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop her.

How is it possible that I can touch everything in this room, including Cam, but I can’t get a grip on those damn books?

Cam bustled around the kitchen, muttering and cussing under her breath. The house vibrated with her agitation. She scraped something against the floor murmuring “Sorry, Charlie’ under her breath.

Water ran in the sink. A bottle of liquid soap belched loudly. The clank of dishes piled in the drainer set his teeth on edge. The quiet hiss of spray cleanser whispered in his ears, and a squeak of cleanliness marked the end of her task.

“Ugh,” she groaned.

A plastic trash liner slithered as it was pulled from the can. The hinges on the screen door creaked, the bag of trash hit the back porch with a soft splat, and the door slammed against its frame.

“Come on. Come on,” he muttered.

She shuffled through the living room, straightening picture frames and ashtrays that were never used. A stack of newspapers and magazines fell into the recycling bin with a thunk. A pillow was plumped by several vicious blows.

Her heels pounded the floorboards as she hurried to the bathroom. Frank gritted his teeth while drawers opened and closed. The door of the medicine cabinet banged against the wall.

Cam hissed in frustration and hurried back to the front door. Plastic wheels rumbled along the varnished floors; something softer bumped against the frame of the bedroom door.

“That’s right, beat yourself black and blue, you idiot,” Cam murmured. She grunted and heaved something onto the bed, and the box springs protested the abuse.

“Come on, Cam, turn on the light,” Frank prodded.

Cam gathered some clinking bottles and cans and hurried back toward the bathroom. She hummed tunelessly, nearly drowning out the sound of caps popping open and compacts snapping closed. The thwap of a curling iron’s tongs echoed down the hall.

The sound of the lawn mower drew closer to the house. Frank scowled at the intrusion. Focusing harder, he picked up the thread of the old Simon and Garfunkel tune when she strolled back into the room.

“I wish I was…” she sang under her breath.

Fabric rustled and her voice was muffled. Cotton scraped over skin. She rummaged through the suitcase again, shaking something out with a sharp snap. Her shoulder popped as she pulled on a shirt. The teeth of a zipper meshed. She hummed the next few lines of the song, and Frank stilled, an arrow of fear embedding itself in the void in his chest.

The buzz of the lawn mower receded. Frank wondered if Cam thought he was the one who was supposed to wait silently for her. He resented the implication. He wasn’t waiting for her, he was stuck here.

Her footsteps padded down the hall. Static crackled from the stereo. The refrigerator opened and closed. A bottle cap plinked against the counter. Another cap followed, and Frank frowned in confusion. The screen door opened and closed, and the lawn mower cut out abruptly.

“Ready for your beer?” she called.

Then it struck him. Someone else was waiting for her.

The ragged edges of the gaping wound in his chest prickled. The rumble of another man’s voice hummed in the air, and Frank could only whisper, “No.”

Margaret Ethridge survived the tyranny of six older siblings and the rigors of twelve years of Catholic schools, so she can handle anything. A graduate of Illinois State University, Margaret migrated to Chicago where she tried on careers like shoes while attempting to figure out a way to make a living as a professional spinster. Then, she met a Southern man with a sexy drawl and big chocolate brown eyes and her career plan went down the tubes.

Now she lives in Arkansas with that same sweet-talking Southern gentleman. She is the not-so-wicked-step-mother to their two children, the adoring mistress of three spoiled dogs, the food purveyor to eleven hungry goldfish, and the comic foil for one rather impertinent house rabbit who thinks he rules the roost. She spends her days buying booze by the truckload, but at night she spins tales of love and lust.

Margaret is a member of the Romance Writers of America and the Diamond State Romance Authors. When she isn’t tapping away at her keyboard, Margaret engages in an epic battle against her never-ending laundry hampers, cajoles the flowers in her yard, sings into her hairbrush, and has been known to hold entire conversations speaking only in movie quotes.