Top o' the mornin' to ya! And talk about the luck of the Irish, lucky you is getting a chance to go back to Last Chance Beach with Romance Gem Lucinda Race's SHAMROCKS ARE A GIRL'S BEST FRIEND! Let's find out more...
Blurb ~
Battered, broken, and looking for solitude smoke jumper Tric heads to Last Chance Beach and without warning walks into Kelly's cottage. She knows from experience this is the best place for him to recover and she'll share her safe haven with him. Will a bit of Irish luck and a matchmaking uncle give them a chance to find love?
Tric Ryan has spent the majority of his adult life jumping out of airplanes and into infernos. That is until a fateful jump nearly ends his career as a smokejumper. Badly in need of a change, he drives to Last Chance Beach to recover. A short respite at Shamrock Cottage promises him the solitude he needs to recoup or to figure out how he’ll face a future without the dangerous job he loves.
Kelly O’Malley moved to Last Chance Beach after a broken heart. She’s living in her uncle’s rental, Shamrock Cottage, after a fire destroys her home. Brandishing a skillet she’s ready to defend her safe haven from the battered and bruised man in her living room. A quick call to her uncle confirms the mix-up, and that he’s accidentally rented the cottage to both Tric and her for an open-ended stay. When they both agree they can share the spacious vacation home, sparks are sure to fly.
Kelly helps Tric recover with easy walks on the beach and friendship. Will the magic of Last Chance Beach, with a dash of luck from the Irish, heal the heartaches Kelly and Tric carry and help them find the love and a future they both deserve? After all, Shamrocks are a girl’s best friend.
Excerpt ~
Kelly O’Malley crept down the hallway of Shamrock Cottage, her heart pounding in her chest. The early morning sun streamed through the skylights and the hardwood floor was cool against her bare feet on this late-January morning. The weight of her cell phone was comforting in her sweatpants pocket.
Who the heck was in her house?
She slid along the wall like she had seen in those movies on television where the girl sleuth was stalking the unknown. Dramatic much? When she reached the end of the hall, she peeked around the corner, her gaze sweeping the open space of the living and dining rooms and kitchen. Standing in front of the sliding glass doors, looking out over the ocean, was a very tall man, even by her standards, as Kelly was tapping six feet herself. With a backpack over one shoulder and an enormous canvas duffel bag at his feet, he leaned heavily on a cane.
She tiptoed to the counter and grabbed the cast iron skillet, being careful not to make a sound. If he’d heard her, he hadn’t moved.
She raised the skillet to shoulder height, clutching it with two hands for good swinging leverage. “What are you doing in my house?”
The man slowly turned, grimaced, clutched his leg, and held up his other hand with the cane dangling from it. “What are you doing in my rental?” Confusion and pain clouded his eyes. “I promise I can’t hurt you.” He gestured to his leg. “Recovering from surgery and exhausted from a long drive.”
She didn’t lower her makeshift weapon but instead looked him over from head to toe. He was ruggedly handsome but did look road weary. “Rental?”
“Yes, well, actually this place belongs to a friend of my uncle, who’s a fire chief in Chicago. I signed the agreement on Rental Direct.” He shifted his backpack on his shoulder. “I can show you the agreement on my laptop.”
Well, that was the company her aunt and uncle used to rent their cottage, but that was before her house had burned to the ground in November and left her homeless.
“Who’s your uncle?”
He’d better come up with the right names or she’d call the police to escort him out and then change the code for the door lock. That thought caused her to frown; she’d changed it at the beginning of December.
“John Bannon, and he’s friends with Kevin O’Malley and his wife. I can’t remember her name.”
Well, that was her uncle. She kept holding the skillet with one hand and with the other withdrew her cell. “Joan. Her name is Joan. I’m going to give him a call and I’ll put it on speakerphone.”
“Good idea.” He took a slow, halting step toward her and a flash of agony washed over his face.
She softened but still brandished the skillet even though her arm was beginning to tremble. She lowered it. “No funny business.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Promise.” He gestured to a chair. “Mind if I sit?”
She pointed to a stool on the other side of the breakfast bar. Kelly didn’t want to look like she was a pushover, but his face was stark white and the last thing she wanted was for him to collapse.
Kelly O’Malley crept down the hallway of Shamrock Cottage, her heart pounding in her chest. The early morning sun streamed through the skylights and the hardwood floor was cool against her bare feet on this late-January morning. The weight of her cell phone was comforting in her sweatpants pocket.
Who the heck was in her house?
She slid along the wall like she had seen in those movies on television where the girl sleuth was stalking the unknown. Dramatic much? When she reached the end of the hall, she peeked around the corner, her gaze sweeping the open space of the living and dining rooms and kitchen. Standing in front of the sliding glass doors, looking out over the ocean, was a very tall man, even by her standards, as Kelly was tapping six feet herself. With a backpack over one shoulder and an enormous canvas duffel bag at his feet, he leaned heavily on a cane.
She tiptoed to the counter and grabbed the cast iron skillet, being careful not to make a sound. If he’d heard her, he hadn’t moved.
She raised the skillet to shoulder height, clutching it with two hands for good swinging leverage. “What are you doing in my house?”
The man slowly turned, grimaced, clutched his leg, and held up his other hand with the cane dangling from it. “What are you doing in my rental?” Confusion and pain clouded his eyes. “I promise I can’t hurt you.” He gestured to his leg. “Recovering from surgery and exhausted from a long drive.”
She didn’t lower her makeshift weapon but instead looked him over from head to toe. He was ruggedly handsome but did look road weary. “Rental?”
“Yes, well, actually this place belongs to a friend of my uncle, who’s a fire chief in Chicago. I signed the agreement on Rental Direct.” He shifted his backpack on his shoulder. “I can show you the agreement on my laptop.”
Well, that was the company her aunt and uncle used to rent their cottage, but that was before her house had burned to the ground in November and left her homeless.
“Who’s your uncle?”
He’d better come up with the right names or she’d call the police to escort him out and then change the code for the door lock. That thought caused her to frown; she’d changed it at the beginning of December.
“John Bannon, and he’s friends with Kevin O’Malley and his wife. I can’t remember her name.”
Well, that was her uncle. She kept holding the skillet with one hand and with the other withdrew her cell. “Joan. Her name is Joan. I’m going to give him a call and I’ll put it on speakerphone.”
“Good idea.” He took a slow, halting step toward her and a flash of agony washed over his face.
She softened but still brandished the skillet even though her arm was beginning to tremble. She lowered it. “No funny business.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Promise.” He gestured to a chair. “Mind if I sit?”
She pointed to a stool on the other side of the breakfast bar. Kelly didn’t want to look like she was a pushover, but his face was stark white and the last thing she wanted was for him to collapse.
TO PURCHASE SHAMROCKS ARE A GIRL'S BEST FRIEND:
Award-winning and best-selling author Lucinda Race is a lifelong fan of romantic fiction. As a young girl, she spent hours reading romance novels and getting lost in the hope they represent. While her friends dreamed of becoming doctors and engineers, her dreams were to become a writer—a romance novelist.
As life twisted and turned, she found herself writing nonfiction but longed to turn to her true passion. After developing the storyline for The Loudon Series, it was time to start living her dream. Her fingers practically fly over computer keys she weaves stories about strong women and the men who love them.
Lucinda lives with her husband and their two little dogs, a miniature longhair dachshund and a shitzu mix rescue, in the rolling hills of western Massachusetts. When she's not at her day job, she’s immersed in her fictional worlds. And if she’s not writing romance novels, she’s reading everything she can get her hands on. It’s too bad her husband doesn’t cook, but a very good thing he loves takeout.
Thank you for joining us today, Lucinda! It's been great having you!
