I have another book!!! It’s a romantic comedy!!! You’ll love it!!!
Sadly, it’s not available just yet. Champagne Press is going to release it next summer. But here’s a taste. Maybe you can put it on your to be read list. If your list is near as long as mine, it will be next summer by the time it makes it to the top.
Here’s what it’s about:
Nikki Silva thinks she’s blown up her life. Divorced, funding for her shark research cut off, she’s moved back to Provincetown to live with her father. Nikki’s written a grant proposal funded by a commission run by her ex-husband Ned, who would rather not give money to his ex-wife.
Marco Tornetti wants to turn Newark spaghetti joint into a trendy bistro. His silent partner, Fat Phil Lagosa, wants to use the place to solicit questionable business deals. When Fat Phil turns on Marco and has him marked for a hit, Marco knows he’s in too deep.
Marco escapes the hit man and takes the first bus out of the city. Marco figures that Phil would never look for him in Provincetown”s gay community. But when he meets Nikki, he finds that pretending to be gay isn’t as easy as it would seem.
And a little bit from the opening:
I did not blow up the Mona Lisa. Not only did I not blow up the Mona Lisa- an old leaker of a boat whose blowing up could be construed as a favor to the aptly named Rusty Cook- I did not blow up any part of Rusty’s marina. My brothers will, of course,
say otherwise. They had quite the laugh at my expense over coffee at Ella’s Place.
Rusty had been on the lookout for a boat for me. A good fishing vessel, I’d told him. And a cheap one, because God only knew how much money I’d be able to squeeze out of the Massachusetts Bay Commission for the research grant proposal I’d spent three long months laboring to produce.
It had taken a lot of gumption and crow-eating to get to a place where I could consider buying a boat. The head of the commission was Ned Anderson. Ned, a brilliant shark researcher in his own right, had tumbled a long way: to full time administrator of a bullshit state commission. Though to hear Ned say it, it wasn’t a tumble but a reward for all the years he’d spent roughing it on a California channel island- an island that only had electricity every other day- in order to unlock the mystery of white shark feeding behavior. I had spent five years on that island with Ned. We were married at the time.
One divorce and one ungranted California grant later, I was back in Provincetown, living just off Bradford Street with my father and in dire need of a job. I wrote the proposal. Then I revved up my resolve, packed away my pride, and called Ned. He agreed to a meeting at the Long Wharf Marriott in Boston. It wasn’t supposed to get personal. Really, I had every intention of sticking to business.
I had my only dress dry-cleaned. I put my hair up and put on my gray suede shoes. My pop actually looked up from the TV. “Where you off to, all done up?”
“Job interview.”
“No kidding? Max Groper hiring you on?”
Max Groper was head of Widah, a research ship here in Provincetown. I had asked Max for a job when I first got home, but Max was a one-man show with no funds for a side kick. The only other jobs around were fishing, which two of my brothers did, and working at Dairy Queen, which my baby brother was just shy of doing. As was I, come to think of it.
“The Bay Commission,” I said as breezily as I could manage.
“Ned’s commission?” My father raised his eyebrows. I must say, he looked as though he didn’t quite believe it
“It’s a job, not a reconciliation.” I wasn’t quite sure I believed it myself.
Ned and I met in the bar of the Marriot. He’d already ordered a glass of Pinot for me, knowing that would be what I wanted. The sad truth is that was what I wanted. I hated that he knew me as well as he did.
“You look great,” said Ned, handing me the wine. I wish he’d said something snide, like “your hair looks better down’ or “you’ve got poppy seeds in your teeth.’ Either of those would have unleashed a little fury, which might have led to him wearing the Pinot instead of me drinking it. Then again, that wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere. Not that I got anywhere except to a room on the fifth floor.
I’m not proud of myself and it pains me to even mention it. All that I can offer in my defense is that Ned is six four, blonde, and was probably a Viking in a former life. He looked good in a suit. We had a fairly passionate history, a history I could not easily forget, and after a half an hour and two wines, it felt as though we’d never left that island. One thing led to another. Ned said something to the effect of “I’ve missed you,’ and I said something likewise, which led to hand holding and a little light kissing. Then Ned said that he thought about us a lot and recounted those nights without electricity when we’d found other ways to stay warm and he said he missed those nights. And I said I missed them too and thus the whole train wreck was set into motion.
We got a room, consensually. And everything that happened in said room was entirely consensual. It felt familiar; right down to Ned’s hogging the blankets and me having to tug them back in the middle of the night. All that familiarity led to regret. By five AM, after spending a sleepless hour watching Ned’s chest rise and fall under the bedspread, I was ready to admit that everything that had come between us was my fault. I put my hand to his shoulder and he stirred. “Ned?”
“What?” he opened his eyes, looking groggy and unsure of where he was. “What time is it?”
“We need to talk.”
Ned leaned up on an elbow to eye the clock radio next to the super-sized bed. “Oh God. I’ve got to go.”
“Go? What about”¦?” I’d been ready to pour my heart out like a packet of Splenda.
Ned was already out of bed, hunting for pants and socks, swearing to himself. He handed me a menu. “Order up room service. They have fresh fruit. Get whatever you like. Bill it to the room.”
I handed the menu back. Actually, I threw it at him. He ducked and it thudded against the wall. “I don’t need to be compensated.”
“I’d like to stay, babe, but I’ve really got to go. I’ll talk to Senator McGowan. I’ll set up a meeting. I promise.”
I stared at him as he retied his tie. I wish I’d thought of a comeback, but I was too stunned. “So slam, bam, thank you ma’am,” I managed.
He turned around. “Nik, don’t. Okay?” Then he gathered up his briefcase. And, upon walking out the door, actually said, “I’ll call you.”
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