Fast-paced, funny and incurably romantic
Rachel Banks has never believed in magic or moonlight, but if she’d thought that putting a piece of wedding cake under her pillow would conjure up a nightmare in the form of blue-eyed charmer Mark Robison, she’d have stuffed that cake into her mouth instead! Mark is only in Madeira Beach for some much needed R&R and his new neighbour is not the kind of woman made for vacation memories. But there’s something about the incurable romantic that just keeps drawing him back.
Jennifer Crusie. Susan Elizabeth Phillips. Lynda Simmons? Oh, yeah!
“I’m Mark Robison,” he continued. “I’m out here look¬ing for some answers myself.”
He stopped and dipped his chin. “Are you all right?”
She gave her head a quick shake. “Fine, yes. Just preoc¬cupied. With the house.”
No question about it. That had definitely been an award-winning dream. Why else would she have thought, for even a moment, that he was the man she’d seen in her room?
But then he said, “Why don’t you tell me your name?” in a silvery Southern whisper that was all too real, and Rachel found herself moving closer for a better look.
He laughed when she drew her head back. “Am I that strange-looking?” he asked.
“No,” she said, and almost laughed with relief. “Not at all.”
Broad shoulders, slim hips, all of that was right, but this guy had a beard. Never would she have dreamed a beard. A moustache perhaps but a beard? Definitely not.
She stuck out a hand. “I’m Rachel Banks.”
Beard aside, he did have a rather nice smile. And eyes that were heavy lidded and fringed with long dark lashes. The kind that give a man a sensuous, soulful look and seemed to see—
“Did you want to sit down and talk strategy?” he asked. “There’s an all-night club down the way.”
Rachel backed up a step, telling herself there was no magic and no man. It was a dream. Nothing more. And eyes hadn’t even entered into it.
About the Author
Lynda Simmons is a writer by day, college instructor by night and a late sleeper on weekends. She grew up in Toronto reading Greek mythology, bringing home stray cats and making up stories about bodies in the basement. From an early age, her family knew she would either end up as a writer or the old lady with a hundred cats. As luck would have it, she married a man with allergies so writing it was.
With two daughters to raise, Lynda and her husband moved into a lovely two storey mortgage in Burlington, a small city on the water just outside Toronto. While the girls are grown and gone, Lynda and her husband are still there. And yes, there is a cat – a beautiful, if spoiled, Birman.
When she’s not writing or teaching, Lynda gives serious thought to using the treadmill in her basement. Fortunately, she’s found that if she waits long enough, something urgent will pop up and save her – like a phone call or an e-mail or a whistling kettle. Or even that cat just looking for a little more attention!