I am both stunned and grateful, to those who bought the books, but especially to those who took the time to speak kind words. Please know that each one counts. Writing fiction can be brutal at times. You become a tadpole in the midst of a school of sharks with no defense and no way out. Add to that being a Christian writer and the pressure doubles. Yet I have no regrets and only great plans for the future.
Also, I have an article up at the GNFA blog on crafting your blurb. Check it out!
Today's excerpt is another piece from my next YA Romance, The Best Day of my Life. This time I have a cover reveal as well. It is already available at Amazon for only 99 cents, but look for this to be on the shelves at other retailers within the next week.
In this scene, Daphne realizes she's made yet another gaffe, forgotten her swimsuit.
So, okay, I admit the pinky-swear thing was childish, but having Carter agree to it was worth my saying it. And he didn’t appear to mind because he simply went back to be himself – casual and eye-poppingly cute. Something enhanced by the backdrop of sand and waves and overheated parking lot.
He glanced away from me and I was treated to a fine view of the back of his head. You’d think that’d be disappointing but it wasn’t. Being the well-ignored girl I was, I routinely saw the backs of boys’ heads and had actually catalogued them by shape and hair color. Carter’s fit all the top criteria. First, it wasn’t round. I hated a guy with a basketball-shaped head. Second, it wasn’t narrow either, but the perfect oval. Third, he had black hair, and I was a sucker for black hair.
Black hair and brown eyes, the color of a good glass of iced tea.
I indulged myself in a vivid daydream of running my fingers through that hair, only to have my dad ruin it.
“Poppet,” he said. “Need you to help your mother.”
Carter turned back toward me, one eyebrow arched.
Yeah … Poppet. I rolled my eyes at my dad’s affectionate name for me.
The corners of Carter’s mouth turned up.
“Guess I gotta go,” I said.
He nodded. “Okay.”
I turned my back on him and went to move indoors. But he called out from behind.
“Hey, you wanna swim later?”
Well, duh, I was at the beach. Of course, I wanted to swim. Then I realized I’d be swimming with Carter Pruitt and that made me all nervy. But no way was I gonna act like it or be stupid and say no.
“Like three?” I asked.
“Three’s good,” he said.
And with that I entered the apartment and shut the door.
I was instantly glad the door was closed because the sight that met me would’ve only added to my day’s embarrassment. For my dad had claimed the couch. I took in the scene and suppressed a shudder. Dad, tiny green throw pillows wadded beneath his head. Dad, large, hairy feet propped on the far arm. Dad, mouth open, eyes at half-mast. He was fast on his way to an afternoon nap, but apparently my presence woke him up.
His eyelids flipped open and he focused his gaze on me. “You not help your mother yet?”
“I’m going,” I said.
That apparently satisfied him because he returned to his sleep-driven state.
I walked through the mishmash of living room furniture, which, I might add was typical – wicker chair, glass topped table, 1980s gold-framed watercolor of a pelican – and down the short hall to the bedrooms where I found my mom well entrenched in the closet.
“I’m here,” I said.
This startled her. She stood up, whacked her head on the hangers, and the closet door shut on her bum. I giggled.
“Well, that was wrong,” she said, reopening the door. She moved to the bed where she’d laid out their things and lifted a stack of shirts. “If you could open the drawer.”
I could and I did. We spent the next ten minutes putting away their things at which point she dismissed me to do my own. So I whipped around the corner and into the tiny pocket that was the other room and had a revelation.
Standing there over the lumpy mattress, yanking my underwear from my pockets, counting pairs of shorts and tanks I’d packed, it hit me. I’d forgotten the one thing you should definitely have at the beach. The one thing every girl picks out, careful it flatters her figure. The one I’d, in particular this year, made sure was absolutely perfect.
Yep, my suit.
“You forgot your swimsuit?” Carter slouched on one hip, his hand perched on his side, and eyeballed my outfit.
Short-shorts, pink tank top.
He gave me a half grin. “Nice.”
“So I thought I’d swim in this.” I added.
His eyebrows lifted. “Your mom and dad don’t care?”
Well, they’d care if they knew, but I kinda hadn’t told them I was going swimming. I shook my head. “Nope.”
With that we set out for the sand. Down the stairs, past the ice machine, our feet echoing in the downstairs hallway, through the pool area, out the slightly-rusted iron gate, and smack into foot-burning, eye-searing white sand. I yelped, and Carter halted.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Walk quick,” he said.
Not exactly what I wanted him to say. Or do. I was more hoping for chivalry, him lifting me up, tucking me against his chest, and toting me to the water. Yeah … No. Instead, he did what most boys do, he kept walking, and I was forced to follow.
Yet the reward came at the end. Hopping from foot to foot ‘til I got to the waves and there, sinking calf-deep in the sloshing surf, I turned my head, and I swear on the hair on my head if time didn’t stop and one of those romantic rock songs didn’t play. Because standing in front of me, shirt off, suntan-lotion coated, was Carter Pruitt.
God Almighty he was fine. Sunlight, clear-skies, ninety-eight degrees fine. Mind-blanking, lost-in-my-thoughts, fine. Which was unsafe for a simple girl like me. Since with my head empty and my eyes bugging out of my head, I made the biggest mistake you can make at the Gulf.
I forgot to do the stingray shuffle.
Suzanne D. Williams
Suzanne Williams Photography
Suzanne Williams is a native Floridian, wife, and mother, with a penchant for spelling anything, who happens to love photography.