Lately I’ve been working on rewrites for an old favorite. Remember Spring Chickens? Well, it’s going to have new life! Hopefully one that includes cover art that doesn’t make the author cringe each time she looks at it.
Here’s a little taste of the story to refresh your memory:
“Good morning,” she said, lounging against the doorframe. She raised the pot. “Coffee?”
Bram scraped his palms against his jeans. His eyes locked on hers. “Are you an angel?”
Her smile widened. “Maybe.” She gave the storm door a nudge with her foot. “Come on in.”
She didn’t peek to see if he followed. The heavy footfalls of his boots gave him away. She added a smidgen of sway to her hips and a blush heated her cheeks when she heard him pick up the pace. The pot and mugs barely landed on the table before she turned and ran into a solid wall of man.
“Good morning,” he whispered and brushed his lips over hers.
“Mmm.”
She blinked drowsily. Her hands slid to his shoulders. Muscle bunched beneath her fingers. Heat that came from more than early morning sunshine seeped into her fingertips. He pulled her closer, every inch of his long, lean body pressing flush against hers.
“I thought about doing that all night,” he murmured, stealing another soft peck.
Her fingers tangled in the short curls at the nape of his neck. “Hmm. Thought about doing what all night?”
A breathy chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Aw, now, no angel would say a thing like that to a guy.”
She laughed, and he swooped in, swallowing her gasp of surprise. He cradled the back of her head in the palm of his hand. His fingers sank into her hair, loosening the clip.
Oh, cheater.
Sugar and cream sweetened his tongue. He had coffee. So not fair. She lapped him up, knocking his ragged ball cap to the floor. The coffee mugs clanked when she stumbled into the table. He braced her back, his fingers splayed wide and sliding temptingly lower. She flailed, attempting to plant her hand on the tabletop to gain leverage. Instead, her knuckles grazed the steaming glass coffee pot.
“Aghhh,” she yelped.
“What? Did I hurt you?” he panted.
Lifting her hand to her mouth she shook her head as she sucked on her knuckle. “No. I’m okay.” He tried to pull back, but she reached for him again.
“Coffee. Hot. Bad coffee.”
She laced her fingers at the base of his skull, sliding her hips along the edge of the table and pulling him along with her. “You had coffee. Gimme more of yours,” she whispered and yanked his head down again.
He chuckled against her mouth, his lips molding to hers—tasting, testing, tempting. “Like that?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “No. Yes. More.”
He stroked the skin of her throat, his breath stirring her hair. “Awfully bossy in the mornin’, Miz Prescott.”
“Haven’t had enough coffee. I’m not awake.”
“Oh. Well, then, maybe I can help.”
He kissed her thoroughly, sharing the dregs of his morning elixir. Her fingers clenched, pulling him closer by fistfuls of woven cotton. His hand slipped under the hem of her shirt, warm fingers grazed the small of her back. Lynne moaned and pulled harder, leaning back on the table.
The mugs skittered across the table. Hot coffee sloshed from the pot, splattering the hand he used to brace his weight. She arched against him, catching his groan and rewarding him with a triumphant laugh when they broke for air.
His lips brushed her cheek. He drew the tender flesh below her ear into his mouth, his warm tongue laving her skin. This time she moaned, and he answered with a chuckle. He ducked his head and nuzzled her neck.
“I am never going get the damn porch done,” he said in a husky whisper.
****
Hope you enjoyed this blast from the past. Happy Monday!
