Lydia Bennet was a pretty young thing, but rather vacuous. She took his mind off his troubles though, made him smile. When she proposed the idea of running off together, he initially resisted. After all, she wasn’t from a wealthy family. But she was adamant that if they forced her father’s hand, he would give them at least a few hundred pounds a year and pay off George’s gambling debts rather than face a scandal.
Lieutenant George Wickham grimaced and set down the empty glass.
He’d done a fine job of becoming a rake and a ne’er-do-well.
Running off with Lydia Bennet would set his well-earned reputation solidly in stone. Continue reading “Wickham” →
“Run! Run! Run!”
“We’re not gonna make it!”
“We will! Move your tail, soldier!”
Crofton jumped first, landing solidly on the floor of the moving boxcar. Nina leapt after him, grasping the handle of the partially open door and swinging into the car beside him.
Paul ran as fast as his four feet would carry him down the station platform, his heart racing like an eight-cylinder engine at full horsepower. Continue reading “No Ordinary Mouse” →
“One Hoboken special and a turkey club, no onions.” Mia’s voice rose over the sound of the crowd outside the food truck.
A warm California breeze blew in through the open window, smelling like fried onions and saltwater…and Mia’s orange blossom perfume.
Ben flipped two filets of chicken on the sizzling griddle before moving to work on the sandwich order. With a glance out the window, he saw it belonged to their last customer.
Relieved, he finished up the order, and fifteen minutes later, he was slouching into a folding chair at the back of the truck. He ran his fingers through his hair, let out a long sigh, and propped his feet up on a cooler. Mia pulled off her baseball cap, and her coffee brown curls tumbled around her shoulders.
Ben’s breath caught, and he studied his shoelaces like they held all the world’s secrets. Did she see the blush heating up his face? Continue reading “The Friend Zone” →
Sometimes it comes in burnt-bottom pans
and frayed-end quilts. Sometimes it’s scuffed guitars
played by callous-tipped hands. Continue reading “LOVE WITHOUT THE -LY” →