Cover Designer: Rebel Edit & Design
It’s actually wishful thinking on my part. I love the outdoors, I love the wilderness, and I still dream of one day living the life of one of my characters!
The seed for this collection, though, was a trip I made with my daughter in April of 2016. She was moving to Edmonton, which is almost clear across Canada, and had asked me to drive with her. You drive for two or three days, just to get out of Ontario, it’s that big! The Trans Canada Highway takes you through some of the prettiest country you’ll ever see, especially when rounding the north shore of Lake Superior, and the country side inspired me.
When I started writing, it was in part because of a lack of realistic, mature characters in romance. Almost everyone is beautiful, perfect, built, rich, healthy and young. I’m not young, or perfect, or even particularly healthy, and neither are a large chunk of the reading audience.
I like offering hope, the promise of possibilities, and a message that being young, beautiful, healthy and otherwise beautiful is not a requirement for adventure, or love, or even hot monkey sex.
I promise we don’t stop breathing when we hit that forty, or even that fifty or sixty mark.
Yes, I’m hoping to continue with the Northern Ontario theme, simply because I know it well, and I enjoy describing places I’ve actually visited. For now I have two more novels planned for a total of four in this series, and then I may move on to something else again.
I don’t know that I have any if you mean the subject of what I’m writing. I don’t have an issue writing any kind of scene per se. I as easily write a love scene as I write a gruesome fight scene, or an emotionally devastating one. I will tell you that I am completely in the zone when the scene is highly charged emotionally. So much so, that I often cry when I write, even when I hardly ever cry otherwise. Weird, huh?
But if you are referring to the act of writing, then I would have to say noise. I cannot work with too much noise around me. No music, no TV, no one talking—those are all distractions that pull me out of my head. That’s why I’m up early every morning, usually between four and five o’clock, and I write then.
I slap my thigh where a mosquito just bit me. I wipe at another one that lands on my arm, and pretty soon the buzzing is loud around my head, and I’m frantically waving my hand around my face. A blood-sucking army is out tonight, and I scramble to my feet, snatch up the now empty bottle, and hustle toward the sanctuary of my house.
My heart lodges in my throat when I see a figure detach itself from the shadows of the porch.
“Was wondering how long it would fucking take before you came running.”
I bend over, gasping to get air in my lungs, when I hear the voice.
“I swear, Riordan Doyle…one day you’ll be the death of me.”
“Not what I had in mind,” he chuckles easily, as he grabs my arm, drags me inside, and out of the way of the charging mosquitoes.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, as he takes the bottle from my hand, sets it on the counter, and pulls me into my living room. There he drops down on the threadbare couch and tugs me down beside him. “I thought you went home?”
“I did,” he confirms, throwing his arm over my shoulder and tugging me to his chest. “And I was just putting my feet up on the coffee table when I realized I didn’t want to be there.”
“No,” he repeats. “Couldn’t relax. Started thinking about this…thing…between us. And you know what? Waiting for the right time is for the fucking birds.”
“It absolutely fucking is,” he says with conviction, curving his free hand along my jaw and turning my face toward him.
His hazel eyes are almost black in the scarce light of my living room, his heavy-lidded gaze roaming my features before settling on my lips.
“I’m thinking right now sounds like the right time.”
I can feel the deep rumble of his voice down to my toes, and my own drops a few octaves lower as well.
“You do?” I mutter breathlessly as his head bends down.
It’s clear from my distinctly unimaginative responses that my brain cells have signed off for the day. I’m starting to sound like a goddamn parrot, but Roar doesn’t give me time to linger on that thought. His mouth is already on mine and his tongue is demanding entry.
One moment I’m tucked beside him on the couch, and the next I’m on my back, Roar’s heavy frame covering me, his lips still firmly fused to mine. Good God the man can kiss.