Monday, November 29, 2010

and now we enter...


the time of year where I feel behind the clock about ten minutes after I get up. Most days. Other days, I feel all glowy, cockle-warming, domestic bliss, Martha Stewart wanna be happiness as I putter and bake and craft. It's a crap shoot and I simply never can tell.

I'm also finishing my current book (which came out of nowhere and has blown by) so that makes the balance of birthday/decorating/shopping/prepping Christmas month that much more um...tweaky.

Here's a nibble of the current WIP as I strike things off my To Do List. So far I'm doing pretty good. How long until I lose steam and pop in the DVD of Fringe and veg out? Anyone wanna bet???

Happy Cyber Monday!

from Sommer's WIP:

“Put your shirt back on,” I growled. Mason froze. “You told him to say that, didn’t you?”

Mason chuckled, but buttoned his shirt. “No. But I’m just screwing with you. Hey, babe, I would so not be averse to a nice romantic encounter with you here or anywhere, but not under duress.”

“It’s a ghost. A spirit. Smoke and mirrors. Even if it is real, what could it possibly do to us?”

“I wouldn’t say that, Darl—“

Just then the overhead chandelier started swinging. Not an original part of the house, I’d wager, since this had been the main house on a working farm. However, it was huge and wrought iron and dominated the tall ceiling in the foyer. If it fell, I realized, not much was going to be spared. I moved down toward the sealed doors.

“There. We’re out of the line of fire,” I said to Mason in a calm conversational voice. Nothing like the coked up gerbil feeling I had on the inside.

“Yeah, I have a feeling that they—“

He didn’t get to finish when a piece of glass flew off the chandelier to crash at my feet. Then my breath stalled and my lungs kicked and panic swelled in me because I couldn’t quite breathe. It was as if my throat was wrapped in a icy cold hand that was squeezing for all its worth.

“Darla?”

“Grmph,” I said.

“Darl? Your face is turning purple.”

I clawed at invisible hands that Mason couldn’t see. Hell, that I couldn’t see. But nothing worked. I waved my hands to him and he stepped forward, pulling at my neck and giving a startled hiss when he came in contact with the icy nothingness.

“Frmph!” I said. And then I grabbed Mason and kissed him as much as a woman being strangled can kiss.

Mason’s tongue found mine and the warm touch of wetness sizzled through my oxygen deprived brain. The grip on my throat loosened and I sucked in a sweet rush of stale historical air. “Oh god, that’s good,” I said.

“I am a good kisser,” Mason said, mellowed by the physical contact.

“I meant the air.”

XOXO
Sommer
*fabulous non-working (my favorite kind!) clock here

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