The Orange County Chapter of Romance Writers of America is proud to announce that the Book Buyer’s Best Contest for 2017 is now open.
We are looking for entrants as well as preliminary round judges. If you wish to judge please contact the contest coordinators at: bbbcontest@occrwa.org.
GLBT entries: Authors are to place their entries in the appropriate category
Judging
The preliminary round will be judged by booksellers, librarians and romance readers. First, second and third place will be awarded in each category. Highest score in each category will advance to the final round to be judged by the Top Pick Judge (TBA).
For a complete list of the rules and the official entry form, please visit: http://occrwa.org/contests/book-buyers-best/
If you need to contact the contest coordinators, Nikki Prince and/or Sabrina Sol please email: bbbcontest@occrwa.org
The finalists for OCC’s 26th Annual Orange Rose Contest for Unpublished Writers were announced at the July meeting by contest chair, Charlotte Lobb.
This year’s finalists range the globe, from California to Georgia, Vancouver to Toronto, and even Australia by way of Paris.
And the finalists are:
Lecia Cotton Cornwall, Unmasking the Countess, Historical
Pamela Kopfler, Better Dead, Paranormal/Time Travel/Fantasy
Kate Frieman, Strong, Sweet & Haunting, Paranormal/Time Travel/Fantasy
Kathy Bennett, A Dozen Deadly Roses, Romantic Suspense
Gayle Link, w/a Vanessa Riley, Carriage of Honor, Historical
Laurie Thompson, A Sweet But Deadly Desire, Paranormal/Time Travel/Fantasy
Gabrielle Luthy, Learning How to Stay, Mainstream
Alison Pritchard, The Sons of Gregor MacLeod: Highland Promise, Historical
Jo Anne Banker, This Child is Mine, Contemporary
Cheryl Nagro, Love Thy Neighbor, Inpirational
Congratulations to all, and a big Thank You to Charlotte for all her hard work on the contest.
Final results will be announced at the October meeting.
Posted by Linda McLaughlin, Orange Rose Contest Electronic Entry Coordinator
“In the journey of life, love is the sweetest reward.”
http://www.lindamclaughlin.com
http://flightsafancy.blogspot.com/
OCC member and USA Today Bestselling author Susan Mallery is proud to announce the winners of “My Last First Date” contest.
First Place:
The Zone by Jenny Hansen
Second Place:
Better Late Than Never by Gillian Doyle
Third Place:
Next Time, You Pick the Movie by Tanya Hanson
First place winner, Jenny Hansen, will receive a signed copy of Susan’s June release, HER LAST FIRST DATE, and a Starbucks gift card.
Friday the 13th was my lucky day. In the final minutes of my last day of a two-week stint as an office temp, Mr. Tall and Gorgeous asked me out on our first date–a concert on Sunday, the 15th.
On Saturday, my dad’s
Except on that fateful First-Date Sunday.
My dad had taken his relatives to an amusement park for the entire day and were not expecting to come home until late in the evening. Of course I didn’t go because of the BIG DATE.
At five o’clock, I was dressed to kill and ready for the doorbell to ring, wondering if Mr. First Date would have trouble finding my address. Our house was on a very busy four-lane boulevard. It was also so close to the freeway on-ramp that cars accelerated like a jet taking off from LAX. It was so bad that first-time visitors to our house had been known to whiz by with the flow of traffic and find themselves in the next suburb in the blink of an eye.
I had stomach-churning visions of Mr. Dreamy Date, dazed and confused in Pico Rivera, searching helplessly for an opportunity to turn around (not an easy trick), then finally heading back toward my house, only to discover the impracticality of parking across the street. Over on that side, the off-ramp from the freeway shot Indy drivers onto the boulevard faster than the Jet pilots on my side. NO one crossed those lanes on foot.
Okay, so now the guy was ten minutes late. Maybe he’d made a second pass and missed again. Maybe I should’ve told him to come around to the alley where everyone else parked.
Nooooo…Mr. Knight-in-Shining-Armor’s first impression of my humble abode would NOT be a pot-holed alley lined with graffiti-scrawled cinderblock walls and smelly trash cans.
Twenty minutes late.
Oh dear lord, please don’t let this be happening.
It’s bad enough to be stood up, but worse if it’s a FIRST date! What could be worse than that? Being stood up when your dad has his
Thirty minutes late.
I heard voices at the back door. My dad and his relatives were home early!
Panic! I had honestly expected to be long gone when they came back – either on my date or … well, anywhere else but home so I didn’t have to face them.
As they came in the kitchen, I glanced around. No where to run. No where to hide. Oh good god, why me? WHY ME?
I think I had been wearing a red dress. I don’t know for sure. I just remember thinking as the heat rose to my cheeks that the bright pink flush of embarrassment might not be noticeable. Maybe they’d think it was the glow off the dress. Yeah-right.
Needless to say, everyone stopped when they saw me. Their smiles froze. Awkward silence. Then hellos all around. They shuffled into the living room, saying what a great time was had by all at the amusement park, and it was too bad I’d missed it. And had they realized I’d still be here when they got back, they would’ve insisted that I come along in the first place.
Yeah, well…I did have a date to get ready for.
Ah-yes, “the date”. (Did I detect a wink between my dad’s cousin and her husband?)
Then she said, sweet as you please, with a tad of empathy thrown in, “Looks like you’ve been stood up.”
ACK! SHE SAID IT! SHE SAID THOSE DREADFUL WORDS!
I know I didn’t say this out loud because there were no gasps of shock and their eyes didn’t pop out.
Instead, I kept my smile firmly in place. Still, I have no recollection of anything else I may have said or done as the minutes ticked by.
Finally the doorbell rang.
Saved – literally! — by the bell.
Our date was a John Denver concert under the stars at the (then) open-air Universal Amphitheater. The music was wonderful, the night perfect. It was just chilly enough to snuggle together for warmth. Many years later we met John briefly through friends, and had the opportunity to thank him for making our first date so memorable.
As time went by, I realized that my dad had brought his relatives home early for personal reasons. He had been eager to meet this young man that his little girl was going to marry someday.
Multi-published author Gillian Doyle writes paranormal suspense. She invites you to drop by at her blog and say hello.
I’d been dating Marty for three months when Valentine’s Day rolled around.
He wasn’t the most demonstrative guy, but he knew what he was doing in the sack and that counts for a lot. He laughed at my jokes when he was around to hear them, didn’t have a string of exes or kids to compete for his time. He looked great in a suit, not so great in jeans. His buddies meant the world to him. If I was a piece of real estate I figured I was right up there with the State of Maine – small but solidly on the radar. I could live with all of this as long as Marty hit the high notes. So, the day of hearts and flowers was kind of a milestone and I prepared appropriately.
The steaks were ready, the table set. I was bathed and perfumed. The music selection was lined up. I would start with sweet and move to seductive. I set aside the fake wax log in favor of real wood for the fireplace. Seven o’clock passed by forty-five minutes when there was an insistent knock on the door.
Better late than never, I figured. I also gave him points for being eager.
I adjusted my cleavage, licked my lips and loved the way the fire threw off just enough golden light to make me look warm and inviting. I opened that door real slow, narrowed my eyes, let a smile play upon my ultra-glossed lips. All wasted. I was looking at the old lady from across the street.
“Your house is on fire, dear.â€
She stepped back, raised a hand, rolled her eyes. I thought she looked quite nice in the firelight, too. This fire, though, was shooting straight out of the chimney.
“Damn.†I muttered.
“I should say,†she answered. “I called nine-one-one.â€
“Great.†Just what I needed. Company on Valentine’s Day.
On the bright side, Marty would hear the sirens, rush to my side, gather me up, turn my head into his shoulder, whisper he was grateful that I was alright. We would fall in love, marry, have children. Our children’s children would re-tell this tale of love at our funerals.
While I waited for Marty’s entrance, I pushed the neighbor onto the lawn and ran for the hose. This was no easy feat. My WonderBra was too tight, my dress too long, my heels too high. I made for it with a sort of whump of a gallop that left me stuck in the thick grass every third step. Breathless when I finally got to it, I grabbed the darn thing and headed back to the middle of the lawn. I hollered at the little old lady as I passed.
“Spot me!â€
She hightailed it over to the faucet, her eyes never leaving the flames that now shot five feet in the air. A breeze kicked up. Cinders flew. Every damn house on the street had shake roofs including mine. The sirens were louder but they weren’t close enough.
“Turn it on!†I screamed, holding tight to the nozzle.
“Turning it on,†the old lady screamed back.
I planted myself and waited for the rush of water. My hair was coming loose from its chignon. My arms were tight to my sides. I was Woman – hear me roar. Marty would be so impressed when he arrived.
“You’re not straight dear!†The old lady again, pulling me out of my daydream.
She unkinked the hose before I was ready. The water shot out, soaking my dress before I got it on the roof. Then came the red lights. Noise. Men in yellow suits and helmets coming to save me.
It went pretty quick after that. Hunky guys put out the flames while the old lady and I watched. Marty never showed but a damn good looking fireman grinned down at me from his perch on the roof. I smiled back. The evening wasn’t a total loss.
Long story short. The guy wasn’t smiling, he was grimacing. He’d slipped on the roof I watered down. His ankle was broken. They took him away on a gurney. My dinner burned. Marty never showed. The old lady and I finished off a bottle of wine, toasting our brave hearts. By the time we were done, I didn’t care that mine was just a little bit broken, too.
Rebecca Forster
http://www.rebeccaforster.com/
Hostile Witness
Silent Witness
Privileged Witness
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