Never alone

Alone time. If you're married with children you relish those precious moments when you can actually hear yourself think. If you're single, you yearn for the company of family and friends. Later today, I'll post a funny story about how I tripped all over myself in this quest for love, but right now I want to talk about our need for connection.

We all fear being alone to a certain extent. Human beings are social creatures - we ache to be heard, to know we mean something to someone, and to have someone special who means the world to us.


This is love. This is what keeps memories alive long after loved ones are gone. It gives us the strength to open our hearts and minds to others. When we enter a new relationship, or rekindle an old one, most of us are afraid of being hurt, but I think we fear ending up alone even more. We are human. We crave love, we yearn for romance, and we reach for that connection time and time again. That's life; and living a full life is always worth the risk.

This is the central theme in my debut novel, Paramour.

Two men: one living, one dead, and both vying for her love.

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 passionate 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?

Excerpt:

Heedless of her stained jeans, Cam fell face-first onto the narrow single bed. She wrapped her arms around a pillow stuffed into a faded rose-printed cotton sham. Inhaling deeply, she picked up the scent of Cheer detergent and searched for a hint of Love’s Baby Soft that used to linger in the room.

A tinge of something different tickled her nostrils. The heady, familiar aroma made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. The tantalizing fragrance wasn’t a trace of her father’s traditional splash of Old Spice. She raised her head, and her nostrils twitched as she tried to pick up the thread once more, but it was gone, drifting away like a memory.

Cam groaned her frustration and flipped onto her back to stare at the popcorn ceiling. She cataloged the familiar peaks and valleys while she ran through the list of things she’d need to accomplish in the next few days.

The silence hummed around her. Her stomach growled as if to chastise her for the casserole wasted on the kitchen floor. She rubbed the edge of her thumbnail over the pad of her index finger. When fidgeting didn’t prove effective, Cam pressed her hand over her heart and carefully measured the strength of each beat against her fingertips.

She told herself everything would be okay. Here in her room, she was safe. Her eyelashes fluttered with the herculean effort it took to open them.

Cam reached up and twisted the tiny stem on the cone-shaped reading lamp above her bed. A beam of light swept the length of the bed, bathing the faded comforter in a warm, golden glow. Cam basked in the soothing pool of light, safe in her girlhood room. She studied the rosebud-patterned wallpaper and silently thanked her mother for being too bohemian to collect Madam Alexander dolls. The silence throbbed like an ache. She closed her eyes and wished she could hear her father’s tuneless humming just one more time.

She didn’t stir when the edge of her bed dipped. Instead she held her breath for a moment before opening her eyes. Francis John DeLuca sat perched on the edge of the mattress.

She stared at him, drinking in the little details. She knew the leather bracelet he wore had sixteen rows of studs. The ends of the strip of coarse black hair he wore in a Mohawk curled ever so slightly. A tiny gold hoop in his ear gleamed in the light and a Metallica shirt stretched taut across his shoulders. The sleeves cut into his biceps, but the fabric made no indention in his smooth olive skin.

The scent was back, flooding her senses with the relief of homecoming. She wondered if he knew how many hours she’d spent at the men’s cologne counter sniffing samples, trying to place the fragrance. After twenty years of friendship, endless fights, and one unforgettable kiss, she’d wondered if she finally earned the right to ask questions.

“Are you really here?” she whispered, afraid she’d scare him away.

“Yeah.”

Their eyes met, and she tumbled into the depths of his dark gaze. Cam knew if she didn’t take the chance this time, she may never have another.

“What cologne do you wear?”

Frank’s eyes narrowed with typical caution. “Polo.”

“Huh. Smells different on you.”

His thick eyebrows rose, and a sardonic smile twitched his lips. “Might be because I’m dead.”

Cam swallowed hard and sat up. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Welcome home. I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, forcing a small, flirtatious smile. “Did you miss me?”

“Every damn day.”

“Then don’t leave me again.”

Frank raised his hand. His fingers twitched. She could feel heat radiating from his palm. Those warm fingers curved along the contour of her cheek. “I’ll make sure you’re never alone.”

Cam smiled, smoothing her palm over the rough hairs on the back of his hand. “With you around, how could I be?”

She stretched out once again and closed her eyes, certain he’d stay perched on the edge of her bed watching over her as she slept. Cam drifted off, secure in the knowledge that she would never truly be alone in her room.

You can read more about Paramour and all of my releases at my website: www.margaretethridge.com

Thanks for reading!

Margaret

What comes after happily ever?

I love a good HEA as much as the next girl - that's why I read and write romance. I need to know that the joy and turmoil the characters experience in their journey to love pays off. But what comes after happily ever?

Anyone who has ever been in love knows that the bloom fades with time. The bit about familiarity breeding contempt became a cliche for a reason. The truth is, the more we know about the person we love, the more there is to irk us.

I love my happily ever afters, but I need to know that love can still thrive and survive long after the orange blossoms have wilted and the cake topper has been permanently petrified in the back of the freezer.

This summer, Turquoise Morning Press will launch a new line called After Happily Ever, and I'm pleased to announce that my novel, Contentment, will be the debut release! Here is an excerpt from Contentment, coming June 27, 2011.

I hope you enjoy it!

Tracy Sullivan seems to have it all, a handsome, devoted husband, three beautiful children, a steady career, and the perfect suburban home; but she isn’t happy.

The petty resentments that have built over fifteen years of marriage surface when Tracy tells her husband, Sean, that she is no longer interested in sex, and their marriage threatens to implode.

For the sake of their children, Tracy and Sean agree to lead separate lives under the same roof. With the help of a healthy dose of adult-rated fiction and some gentle prodding from a good friend, Tracy begins to rediscover who she is, what she wants, and the reasons she fell for Sean once upon a time.

After two years of soul-searching, Tracy is finally ready to embrace her happily ever after having learned that while happiness may be fleeting, contentment can last a lifetime.

Excerpt:

June 2008

The cursor blinked, the little bastard. The flashing line taunted her, all but double-dog daring her to click the link. But there was someone on the other end. Someone who had seemingly nothing and absolutely everything to do with what may or may not be about to happen. Somewhere out there, caught in the World Wide Web, was a living, breathing person she had never met, never seen, and never heard of Tracy Sullivan.

Tracy glared at the cursor.

Shouldn’t someone know they had this much of an impact on another human being? Doesn’t she deserve to know what she does matters to someone?

At least, she assumed the author was a woman. Only a woman would understand.

She pressed on the button, and a strange sense of calm flooded her veins as the contact form appeared. After entering her email address, she typed, ‘Your stories’ in the subject line. Then she chickened out.

Tracy wasn’t surprised. She’d been clucking like a crazed hen all day. I wonder if I’m sprouting feathers yet.

Out of the corner of her eye, Tracy spotted the telltale pink shopping bag peeking out from under the briefcase she’d had dumped on the chair. She stared at the tiny pink bag, gnawing her bottom lip and remembering the agonizing forty-five minutes she had spent surrounded by a sea of lace and satin.

She stuck out like a sore thumb in the Pepto-Bismol pink store. Her navy blue skirt and peep-toe pumps seemed like such good choices that morning. The skirt may have been navy, but it fit lean and snug. The hem fell below her knee and making her feel like a sexy secretary. She’d paired the skirt with a deceptively simple, white cotton blouse that nipped in at the right spots, and finished the ensemble with the sinfully red high-heeled pumps and a slash of scarlet lipstick. The whole combination had almost given Sean whiplash as she rushed to the car to run the morning carpool shift.

The clucking began. Whatever confidence Tracy had when she dashed out the door fled the moment the whipcord thin, I’m-barely-old-enough-to-order-a-drink salesclerk starting pulling baby dolls and teddies and negligees from the racks.  

Tracy gawked at the displays, trying to envision prying her body into one of the scraps of fabric without benefit of a crowbar. She caught a glimpse of herself in one of the store’s many mirrors, and her heart sank. She looked exactly like what she was: an almost forty-year-old woman buying lingerie in a desperate attempt to salvage her failing marriage.

Tracy could almost hear the overgrown teenager thinking she’d have to exert some serious effort if she thought she wanted to lure her man back into the nest. These girls probably dealt with a lot of this. Every day, women her age must rush through their door in a blind panic hoping to recapture their youth, and rifling through the inventory of flame red lingerie. Women who wonder if they can tolerate wearing a piece string splitting her ass, on the off chance the butt floss might rekindle a spark.

When this same eager, young saleswoman dared to hold a teeny-tiny bustier set in front of her own non-existent bosom, a woman browsing a rack of full-support brassieres muttered, “Nurse a coupla kids, sweetie,” under her breath.

Tracy chuckled, but the clucking began in earnest. The idea of teddies, baby dolls and bustiers had to be jettisoned. She wasn’t sure her plan would work. If it didn’t, she didn’t want to be the idiot flipping flapjacks like Eva Gabor in her high-heeled, marabou-trimmed slippers.

She didn’t even have a pair of marabou-trimmed slippers.

Tracy snatched the bag from the chair. She padded into the laundry room and extracted her oldest, softest jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt from the pile waiting to be sorted and put away. She stepped into the tiny powder room, refusing to meet her own gaze in the mirror above the sink.

Being a chicken, Tracy had refused Sean’s offer of dinner, pleading a large lunch. She pretended she didn’t notice the bewildered confusion in his eyes when she brushed past him and rushed down the steps. She didn’t want him to spot the stupid pink bag. A few minutes later she dashed upstairs again. As silently as a ninja, she checked on the kids, steered clear of the kitchen where Sean prepared lunches for the next day, and sought refuge in the basement room that was her lair.

She glanced up, tentatively scanning her reflection for one little scrap of bravado. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him. For the first time in forever, she was dying to see him. But she wasn’t ready. She had to think, and lately she hadn’t been able to think clearly with Sean nearby.

She needed a plan. Tracy was nothing without a good plan, but once a plan was in place, boy watch out!

She slowly unbuttoned her blouse, but by the time she stripped out of the day’s work clothes she still had nothing. She reached into the pink bag and pulled out a matching bra and panty set in a demure, pale peach with cream lace. She had no idea why she had chosen the set. She hated the color orange and all of its derivatives. She hated fake, antique-looking lace. The last thing any woman staring down the barrel of forty needed to put her body into something with the word ‘antique’ attached.

She shook the seventy-five dollars worth of polyester at her reflection. “I should make you wear this as a punishment, chicken.”

Tracy froze. The peach would warm her complexion, the teeny-bopper titty measurer said. She cocked her head, giving the lingerie a speculative once-over. The color would go nicely with her eyes. The lace might not be so old lady-ish on a pair of boobs which hadn’t gone completely south yet. Tracy peeked at her bosom.

Not bad, only halfway down.

She stripped off the serviceable bra and panties she wore. Biting off the tags, she caught sight of her body in the mirror and wished she hadn’t. Once she put the pretty new bra and panties on, though, a flicker of her fickle confidence returned.

Tracy turned from side to side, inspecting what little she could in the oval mirror above the sink. Not awful. She shook her boobs into the cups, pressing on the sides of the bra to be sure the girls were being displayed to their best advantage before slipping into her t-shirt and jeans.

She caught sight of her bare feet as she left the bathroom and smiled. Brazen hussy red. That’s what Sean used to call the bright red polish she used on her toes. The glossy enamel gave her the boost she needed.

Her poor toes had gone unpolished for too long. She wasn’t the girl she used to be, but Tracy was okay with that. Now. At least she was no longer the foolish woman who had almost thrown everything away.

This has gone on for too long.

Tracy drew on the power of the crimson polish. After all, she needed to be brazen. She desperately wanted to be the hussy she had never been.

She hurried to the computer before she could chicken out again. The cursor still winked at her. She glanced at the ceiling. Pots and pans clamored as they were piled in the kitchen sink. The cursor urged her on, flashing its silent, ‘Do it. Do It. You want to do it.’

She wrung her hands. The water shut off, and the lilt of the familiar tune Sean always whistled while he wiped the counters carried down the steps. He was almost done. His kitchen would be sparkling clean and ready for another day’s battle.

Another day’s battle. She straightened her spine. I can’t wait another day.

Tracy glared at the nagging cursor and bent, ignoring the bite of the snug denim at her waist. She tabbed down to the tiny message window and paused, her fingers hovering above the keys. Biting her lip, she battled back the panic humming low and insistent in her brain and tried to think of the right words to say.

From: Tsull1968@gmail.com

Subject: Your stories

Hi! You don’t know me. Well, you kind of do, because you have responded to some of my reviews, but you don’t really know me. I just wanted to tell you how much I love your stories. They have helped me more than I can ever explain. I read in your author’s notes and the messages you post on the boards that you think these are just silly stories you write and post to make people happy -and they do, I am incredibly happy whenever I get an email saying you have updated. But they are so much more. I just wanted to take a minute to thank you. I know you have no idea what I am truly thanking you for, and that’s okay. I needed to say thank you. So, thank you. Wish me luck.

Tracy

With a click of her mouse, the message flew off into cyber-space. Tracy stared at the monitor for a moment, wondering if she should wait for a reply.

Maybe if I get one it would be a sign.

But the sign came from above. The dishwasher hummed to life, and Tracy realized she had to do something now.

No more waiting. No more watching. No more sitting at the computer escaping into another couple’s world, another couple’s bed. This was it. Now or never.

Tracy cringed at the words as they flitted through her head, but she knew they were the truth. She turned her back on the flashing cursor and headed for the stairs. The time had come. Tonight, Tracy Sullivan planned to seduce her husband of seventeen years, and he’d better damn well co-operate.

You can learn more about Contentment and my other releases at my website www.margaretethridge.com - Thanks for reading!

First Kiss: Brad and Cam from Paramour

There's nothing like the anticipation of that first kiss. It doesn't matter if we've been thinking about it for hours, days, weeks, months, or years - there's always that moment of time when we realize it's actually going to happen and the world stops for a heartbeat.

In Paramour, handsome ad man, Brad Mitchum, has his reasons for delaying is first kiss with Camellia Stafford. Here's what happens when desire finally overrules reason. I hope you enjoy it!

Excerpt:

Brad shook off the memory and reached for his beer, surreptitiously checking the time again. He’d stayed late at the office, hoping the time would pass faster if he kept busy. It didn’t. He still had eight minutes, and every one of them threatened to stretch interminably. Now, he was busy sitting at his breakfast bar staring at the clock on his microwave. 

He laughed at his own pathos, picked up his bottle of beer, and drained it. Tipping the bottle cap on its edge, he flicked it with his middle finger and the spinning top careened toward the lip of the counter. It took the plunge, clattering to the tiled floor with a strangely satisfying clatter.

Brad checked the clock once more, and decided it was close enough. He was out the door in seconds, his bare feet pounding the cool concrete walkway. Impatient, he cut across the grass, dodged the fence post marking the Kelly’s property, and trotted along the sidewalk.

He drew to a halt beside her car and pressed one hand to the hood. The chilled metal told him she hadn’t gone anywhere in the past hour or two. He craned his neck and took a few steps along the drive. The kitchen lights still burned brightly. Brad spotted the glow of another light peeping through the crack in the picture window’s draperies.

“Stalker,” he muttered under his breath. “Peeping Brad.”

He jogged up the porch steps, rapped his knuckles against the door, and stood back, burying his hands in the pockets of his paint-stained jeans. A full minute passed. He was about to give up and go home when he heard her shuffling toward the door.

She opened it a crack, one bleary blue eye appearing in the space the old-fashioned chain lock allowed. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hey,” he exhaled.

Cam promptly closed the door. For a split second, he almost panicked. Then he heard the rustle of the chain.

She opened the door wider, a sheepish smile curving her lips as she smoothed the sharp creases that cut across the rumpled black dress she’d worn that morning. “Hi.”

His gaze swept from her bare toes to the bundle of hair held in place with two sharpened pencils. “Are you okay?”

Her smile was slow to blossom, but soon suffused her face, lighting her eyes with blue flames. Brad took an involuntary step back, stunned by the transformation. Then he moved forward, drawn like a moth.

“I’m great.”

“Great?” He couldn’t keep his puzzlement from his voice. He had expected any number of greetings, but not this one.

“Fabulous,” she confirmed. She hugged herself, shivering in the cool night air. “Are you okay?”

He raised his wrist to double-check his watch, needing to be sure he wasn’t going back on his word. The minute hand moved another tick past the twelve and nodded emphatically. “It’s tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Now. It’s past midnight. Tomorrow. Or today,” he rambled, closing the distance between them.

Cam gaped at him, tipping her head back as his hand settled on her waist. “Huh?”

“A brand new day,” he murmured, lowering his lips to hers.

It took a moment for her to catch on, but Cam rose on her toes to prolong the kiss. His fingers flexed, digging into the sweet curve of her hip, drawing her closer to him.

She came willingly, pressing her body to his. Her hands locked at the nape of his neck, her fingers slid into his hair, and a tingle tripped down his spine when her nails raked his scalp.

“Earl?” she whispered when they parted.

Her breath tickled his lips. “No,” he breathed, capturing her mouth again.

He might have moaned, or maybe it was her. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the soft cushion of her mouth against his. A faint whiff of chocolate teased his nostrils. Sugar lingered on her lips. Sugar and...something else. His mind raced, running through his sensory catalog until he struck gold. Milk. She’d been drinking milk.

She pulled back, and he couldn’t resist brushing his thumb over her full bottom lip. “You taste like milk and cookies.”

“They were some snickerdoodles left over. I had them for dinner,” she confessed. Her impish grin made the dimple in her cheek to flash.

He dipped his head and inhaled deeply, drinking in the scent of fruity shampoo and lavender scented lotion. He kissed her again, drawing her deeper, capturing her bottom lip between his and sucking gently. A granule of sugar melted in his mouth, making his head spin.

They stumbled into the foyer in a tangle of arms and legs. Cam laughed when they broke apart, and he bent his head again, capturing the joyful sound with a sweet kiss.

“I couldn’t wait,” he confessed.

Cam’s fingers curled in his shirt and took a step back, urging him closer still until she bumped into the wall. “I’m glad.”

He took a wild swing at the door and somehow connected. When he didn’t hear the latch catch, he kicked out, nearly toppling them over. He ignored the jolt of pain shooting from his toes to his ankle, letting the sound of Cam’s laughter vibrate through him.

His fingers threaded into her hair. The pencils fell to the floor. Silky waves of amber cascaded over his wrists, gleaming in the dim light from the hall. “You’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Your vision is wonky. You must be in your Dali phase.”

“I hated leaving you here.”

She smiled and pressed her hand to his cheek. “You’re sweet.”

Instinctively, he leaned into her caress. “No, I’m not.”

“No, not at all,” she crooned.