Going Pecans Blog Hop

banner5 (1)I was asked to participate in the Going Pecans blog hop by \my good friend author Gina Henning.

About  Going Pecans

Front Cover Going PecansA warm pie. A tasty guy. Happy Thanksgiving indeed.

Homecomings for Lauren Hauser are always filled with delicious food and hopes for a distraction from her quirky family. The only exception with this visit: she’s been given the challenge of preparing her grandmother’s pie.

Set out on a journey for pecans, Lauren stumbles into Jack a guy who despite his charm (and kissable lips) appears to be in a committed relationship…with his career. His main concern is taking care of a last minute errand for a client, not Lauren or her quest for the key ingredient.

Frazzled in more ways than one, Lauren’s journey improves when Jack rescues her from an icy walk. Attraction and tension rise and soon pecans aren’t the only things getting toasty in the kitchen.

 

Amazon link: Going Pecans

Contact Gina: Facebook Author Page   Twitter  Website  Goodreads

 

Blog Post for Going Pecans Blog Hop

Going pecans is a euphemism for the old expression going nuts. We’ve all had that experience. In fact, I’ve had it so many times, I couldn’t decide which time to discuss. Since Gina gave the option, I’ll post an excerpt from Just for the Weekend, when my heroine Cleo does indeed go pecans.

To set the scene, Cleo has just awoken with a hangover of epic proportion and absolutely no idea what happened the night before:

Just for the Weekend cover.Whoa! Take it easy. If the planet will just stop spinning a second, I’ll be fine. 

Cleo stood gingerly and walked to the bathroom. She washed her puffy face—too much alcohol, not enough sleep—took two acetaminophen tablets she found there, and then returned to the bedroom. Her stomach roiled.

So this is a hangover. Not good.

She wrapped herself in one of the bathrobes she found on the floor at the foot of the bed and padded out to the living room for some water. She stopped dead as the scent and color hit her. Given the precarious state of her stomach, the aroma of what must surely be a hundred roses nauseated her.

The room was filled with blooms in every imaginable color. Why in the world would Sam send so many? She blinked her eyes and saw a card on the table. She reached for it and opened it.

Good morning, Mrs. Mason.

I hope the headache isn’t too bad. I have business to attend to, but I’ll be back by two. Think about where you’d like to go for our honeymoon. I have a couple of suggestions.

Love, Sam

Her heart pounded wildly. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt as if the world had stopped spinning and reversed itself. For a brief moment, she was elated.

Mrs. Mason? 

The wonder of it thrilled her. The handwriting on the card was definitely his. It was bold and large, an extension of the man himself. She plopped into the nearest chair and stared at the note in her hand, awed by what the words implied.

She looked around the room, trying to find something to kick start her brain. Further along the table was a picture of the two of them standing in front of a pair of white and gold wedding bells. Instant Bliss Chapel was emblazoned in gold under the picture along with the names Sam and Cleo Mason, and the date. She stared at the number. July fifth. She’d been married earlier today. You’d think she’d remember her own wedding. That wasn’t something a girl was supposed to forget.

She scrutinized the photograph. She and Sam were smiling, arms wrapped around each other, their left hands clasped in front of them. She wore her white eyelet dress, the silver and turquoise jewelry Sam had bought her at the Skywalk, and on her wild hair sat what was definitely a small veil. She held three red silk roses in her hand—the same three roses sitting on the table beside the photograph. Her eyes were a little glazed, but she looked deliriously happy as did Sam beside her. In fact, he had a smug, sappy, satisfied look on his face as if he’d just gotten exactly what he’d wanted. She’d seen the look on the faces of too many five-year-olds not to recognize it.

Cleo gazed at her left hand holding his in the photograph and then examined her hand. The gold band in the picture decorated her left ring finger. She shook her aching, throbbing head from side to side. She didn’t feel like a new bride. She felt confused and sick—suddenly, deathly

The implications of what she was seeing roared into her mind like a freight train out of

Oh God. What have I done? I’ve married a man I’ve known less than forty-eight hours.

I’ve married a male stripper! How the hell am I going to tell Dad? This can’t be real.

Black spots floated in front of her eyes, signaling the onset of a migraine. Her head pounded so hard she was sure it would split open. The sickly sweet smell of the roses gagged her. She barely made it to the bathroom before she was violently sick. Empty, trembling, more miserable than she’d felt in years, she stood at the basin and splashed cold water over her face. How had this happened? She looked over at the shower and the images of what had happened in there warmed her. She started to relax, enjoy the sensations the recollection spread through her body, until the reality of what she’d done hit her once more. It had to have been the champagne!

Oh God! How could I have been so stupid, so careless?

She’d had sex; copious sex; wonderful, mind-blowing sex, with a male entertainer who probably screwed women for a living. Horror filled her as she realized something else: they hadn’t used protection.

Cleo’s half-crazed imagination went wild. She could have caught some terrible sexually transmitted disease. Hell, she could be dying! Even worse, she could be pregnant. Sam would have expected her to be on the pill or something. Every horrible image from every health class video she’d ever be forced to watch danced through her mind.

Like an automaton, she walked back to the table and slipped into the closest chair. What was she going to do?

Think, Cleo, think!  she ordered herself, but her brain adamantly refused to obey. She put her head down on the table and let the tears flow. She’d been raised with a strict moral code, one she’d always followed, not because she had to, but because she wanted to. She never acted impulsively. She always took the time to weigh every choice she made. Mitch was right; Cleo had never had to make a tough decision and that was the way she liked it, but now?  She’d thrown all her values out the window and where did that leave her? To say she was morally bankrupt was an exaggeration, but she certainly had shown a complete disregard for the ethical values that had made her who she was. Somehow being married to a stranger who happened to be an exotic dancer wasn’t going to be one of her finer moments. She had to figure a way out of this before anyone learned the truth.

She reached for the marriage certificate on the table. Son of a bitch! She’d signed her real name, although, drunk as she must have been, the signature was wobbly and hard to recognize.

Maybe Sam wouldn’t be able to see the difference between Cleo Jones and C. C. James written all as one word. Who the hell were Roy McNamara and Dolores Howard listed as the witnesses Reverend John Howard had officiated? She stared at the certificate feeling like Alice through the looking glass. Was it legal? If you got married totally out of it, did it count?

Panic filled her. Was all this part of some clever scam leading to blackmail? She’d seen a news program on that topic just a few months ago. It had been about a place in Mexico or Columbia, she wasn’t sure which. She moved as quickly as her pounding head and unsettled stomach would allow into the bedroom and checked the bedposts for hidden cameras. There was a smoke detector in the ceiling above the bed. Could a camera be hidden in there? She thought of all the things she’d done in that bed and felt the color drain from her face. Was she going to end up on some porno site on the Internet? She’d lose her job for sure!

She looked at the clock. It was almost twelve thirty. Sam’s note said he’d be back by two. She needed to get away as fast as she could. If she disappeared, she couldn’t dig the hole any deeper. She thought of Liz’s comment yesterday. Had Sam been clairvoyant?

She needed time to think, time to process what had happened to her, and time to figure out what the worst case scenario could be. She had to pray she hadn’t told him the truth last night and he wouldn’t know where to find her.

Want to know how our heroine makes her escape? You can pick up a copy of Just for the Weekend at

 Amazon

Now, please check out these great blog posts below and remember everyone that comments on every single post will receive a Going Pecans Recipe Card signed by Gina Henning, please be sure to include your email! Don’t worry if you’ve missed the date. Click on the link– you may go pecans, but you’ll find what your’e looking for!

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