I know. You’re thinking mud wrestling. Or Spring Break. But believe it or not, these are fighting words. That’s right—sporting terms. Welcome to the world of MMA. When I told my friends about my concept for a sports romance series, they tried to take my glass of wine away. Mixed martial what? They had no idea what I was talking about, nor why I was so excited about writing a series about fighters. And not boxers or professional wrestlers—athletes we’re all used to, but fighters in the fastest growing sport around—mixed martial arts. Because I’m a writer and have a way with words, I explained it to them in three: Tom gorgeous Hardy. My fan-girl crush. A hunk of a British actor, whose movies are always the highlight of my cinematic experience. And my favorite character he’s portrayed? An MMA fighter. I had an oh-my moment, and realized just how sexy—how romantic—this sport was. Romance fans have caught on as well. It seems that not only is MMA the fastest growing sport around but also highly popular in romantic fiction. I am hope you enjoy my latest MMA romance, TAP OUT! TAP OUT, book two in the Worth the Fight…

On April 14, Carina Press is publishing six brand-new sports romances. Today Allison Parr is here to tell us about her football novel, Imaginary Lines. It was a TV show that did me in. The heroine wouldn’t stop mooning over the hero, who never gave her the time of day. For God’s sake, I wanted to shout, get over him. Figure out your own life and he’ll eventually see what he’s missing. That was when the plot bunnies for Imaginary Lines came hopping. It’s not easy to be madly infatuated with a guy, especially not if the crush lasts years and if the feeling remains unrequited. But there’s only so much you can do. After Tamar, heroine of Imaginary Lines, tells Abraham’s Krasner — family friend and boy-next-door — that she likes him, that’s that. He doesn’t return the sentiment, so she’s taking off. So long, and thanks for all the fish. So of course it doesn’t take Abe very long to realize he’s madly in love with her. When they run into each other four years later, they’re professionally at odds: he’s a football star and she reports on his team. And Tamar’s given up unrequited love for good:…

Recently, we were at the house of a friend of a friend. Beautiful building, gorgeous gardens, even a stream running through the bottom of the garden. Inside, they had lovely furniture and interesting stuff in their bookcases, on their shelves and hanging on their walls. But their décor was all white. And I do mean all white. Walls, carpets, sofas, lamps, curtains. Every main room and bedroom was white. White on white. Strangely, their bathrooms were all black and white. Now, it was effective and stunning. I’m sure it photographs beautifully. But, to us, it was cold. We won’t mention that we thought it wasn’t really the place for pets or kids or clumsy adults (yes, I was nervous that I’d spill something or make a mark somewhere!) So, for all that we liked their house, we didn’t feel at home in it because of the lack of colour. We love colour! All the rooms we’ve decorated so far have coloured walls. I will admit that they’re plain colour – no wallpaper – because we have a lot of art and memorabilia hanging on our walls and it would be too busy otherwise. And we haven’t gone nuts – like…

“Surviving the Titanic disaster and picking up the pieces” The Girl Who Came Home Hazel Gaynor Reviewed by Clare O’Beara The tragedy of the Titanic continues to fascinate us. This well-written story shows the point of view of some of the ordinary travellers aboard her – Maggie Murphy, leaving Ireland with her family, is one. THE GIRL WHO CAME HOME starts with her last moments in the only home she has known, a rural Irish cottage, as fourteen people from her small parish in County Mayo pack up and head off for a better life in America. Maggie is leaving behind a young man, Seamus Doyle, and she promises to write. Harry Walsh is a crewman, a steward with White Star Lines, proud to be working on the maiden voyage of such a fine vessel. He’s only assigned to the third class passengers, but he’s determined to give them equally as good a service as the millionaires aboard. The scale of the ship in dock is quite staggering to all viewing her in Southampton. Some of the wealthy people even bring their small dogs aboard. Fast forward to Grace Butler, darting admiring looks at a fellow student’s Converse sneakers during journalism…

I leave for a writer’s retreat on Wednesday. It’s a week at a Tennessee cabin with fellow writers Cindy Dees and Elizabeth Hoyt. I’m sure those on FB will see all sorts of interesting #Squidge pictures there. So here are a few interesting musing in (what is to become) my standard format. 1. We found this cabin a) while hiking. Elizabeth Hoyt broke her ankle and Cindy and I carried her to the door and met a god of a lumberjack who nursed her back to health. b) by googling “random cabin somewhere to hide and write.” Also known as drink and talk about fantasy men c) cabin choices are always filtered by superimposing Starbucks locations in a 2 mile radius. No retreat is possible without mochas. d) at the Brenda Novak auction Answer: D In truth, the idea of retreat in Tennessee sounded so good, we just bid without looking too closely at it. We’re not exactly sure how rustic it will be. Fortunately, there is a Starbucks nearby, so at least we’ll have coffee. Also…(A) did happen, but only in Elizabeth’s …um… nighttime musings… (And OBVIOUSLY, the god of a lumberjack was Mr. Hoyt. And she reminds me…

You’re home alone. The house is dark. The clock is reading 3:32a.m. That noise that wakes you from your sound sleep, it’s going to be one that pulls your butt from your warm bed and has you investigating the source. Because, as a tough chick heroine of any story, we don’t need weapon because we are tough enough on our own and our thoughts will direct us on the right path. Everything we needs is on us, in us. We has a reason for facing down whatever evil might lie ahead. In Poltergeist, Diane Freeling faced terrifying odds as her children were taken from her. In her determination was her motivation and she got them back and won. Her love of her kids was her driving force. For me, a self-defense enthusiast since the age of fifteen, it was a history that drove me to become the toughest soccer Mom that walked. Many bad things randomly happened to very nice people in the town where I grew up. I decided young I would never be one of those victims. I taught this lesson to my kids, enrolling them in Tae Kwon Do while other parents told us “But Chorus is…

On April 14, Carina Press is publishing six brand-new sports romances. Today Kat Latham is here to tell us about her rugby novel, PLAYING IT CLOSE. Hey, everyone! I’m so excited to be here today to introduce you to the world’s hottest rugby team, the London Legends. Now, I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that most of you have never been to a rugby match or watched one on TV. And, since there aren’t many of us authors writing about rugby players, you might not have read much about these men with unbelievable bums, abs and thighs, wearing tight uniforms and short shorts. Mmm… Sorry, I drifted away there for a second. I’m back. If you’d told me when I was a kid that I’d grow up to write about rugby players, I’d have said, “What’s rugby?” You see, I’m from California, and rugby’s not exactly a big sport there. But when I was 23, I moved to the Czech Republic and met the most wonderful British man—a man who’s crazy about rugby. And as I fell in love with him, I fell in love with his favorite sport. That’s why I created the London…

I was the little girl who had chubby cheeks and a mushroom cut at seven years old. A smattering of freckles on my ski-slope nose, and corduroy skorts—a shorts and skirt combination–sewn by my Mum because we had no money, my dad in seminary to become a minister and working part-time at the skim milk factory. I didn’t speak until I was four, because we moved to Africa when I was two, and I was too busy eating mangos and watching the beautiful Congolese people to learn their language, but when we came back to Canada I began to find my tongue. And at seven I began to write poems, the kind that told the paper how sad I was because I had no friends. We were homeschooled and I’d moved ten times by then, and a seedling shrivels up if it has nowhere to plant roots. My blue ink scrawled across the page and maybe if it were pretty enough, maybe if the poems rhymed, maybe then Dad would see me, and Mum wouldn’t be so tired and we wouldn’t be so poor, maybe if I put them into words, good things would happen. They didn’t, and no matter…

I think authors hear voices. Different ones at different times, all wanting their stories to be told. Sometimes I’m a little wary with the voices and story ideas…but these days, things are crazy in the real world. During the release time of RISING ASSETS, right now, we are moving houses. With a hubby, two kids, two dogs and an insane cat, I am trying to move after living in our current home for twelve years. I am losing my mind, but I’ve found a lot of lost socks. We’re only moving a few miles away, up on a mountain with a gorgeous view of a lake and more mountains that reach all the way to Canada. This is my dream house, and I really want to move. At least I thought I did until I actually started boxing up stuff. My son packed his room this weekend to take up to the new house, and thus has been wearing the same shorts to school all week. My daughter has packed nothing, and frankly, I’m afraid to look under her bed. There have to be monsters down there…or more socks. Lots of socks. The cat is running around like he’s on…

Thank you Miz Sara and everyone at Fresh Fiction for letting me make a stop here on my recipe blog tour for THE RED-HOT CHILI COOK-OFF. I’m so excited about the second book set in Cadillac, Texas. There’s a brand new lingerie shop in town called Bless My Bloomers, run by three cousins, Carlene, Alma Grace and Patrice. And things are heating up at the panty shop because Carlene found some bikini under pants in her husband Lenny Joe’s briefcase and they damn sure did not belong to her. Now Alma Grace is the president of the Easter program committee at the local church and she’s headed for a committee meeting. In Texas, folks don’t just go to a committee meetings empty handed. No, sir! It’s a fine time to take along food and Alma Grace arrived at the church fellowship hall with a platter of jalapeno poppers and a dozen peanut butter cupcakes. Lord, no, Alma Grace didn’t make them herself! Alma Grace could sweet talk a nun into a black lace corset and fishnet hose but she couldn’t make toast without it resulting in sirens and fire trucks. God bless her mama’s cook. An excerpt about what happened…