Win a copy of A Night of Southern Comfort
and welcome author Robin Covington
to the Book Boost!
She's here to chat about her closet sweet closet and here's what she had to say...
Every writer has a preferred place to write. Some pick a quiet corner of the local coffee shop. Others, use the kitchen table and some have wonderful, beautifully constructed offices complete with large desks and bookshelves full of books.
I have a closet.
Now, I don’t want to leave you with the wrong impression. It is a 19-foot long closet created when we built our house and added on the third bay to our garage. The first 12 feet is full of my clothes, suitcases and out-of-season stuff. The last 7 feet is my writing sanctuary.
My husband created it for me after he mumbled one day that he was tired of seeing me wander around the house “like a homeless Stephen King” looking for a quiet place to write. With two kids under age of 10 and a ginormous puppy who wreaks havoc wherever he goes, it can be a challenge to find a place where I can get my word count complete.
This is the place where I can go, shut the door and be alone with my thoughts and my characters.
I don’t have a desk in there because that reminds me of the EDJ and writing is my escape. I have two bookshelves full of my books – for pleasure and craft – and a blackboard to plot and keep track of my submissions. All the things I need to be productive and maintain the business side of my writing career.
Files keep my business accounts and contracts straight and other keep my mementos – contest win certificates. When I come into this space, everything is there to help me keep the running of “Burning Up The Sheets, LLC” – my corporation – running smoothly.
But, the best part of my writing haven? Limited internet access. Yeah, baby.
No distractions. Heaven. I can retreat into my office, tune out the world and focus on my word count. And, I find that when I can go in there and concentrate – I get it done faster and that helps me make my deadlines and spend more time hanging with the family.
Or more time to idly stare at my man-on-a-stick.
Where do you create? Do you thrive on a busy, public space or need a quiet corner? What inspires you?
A Note from the Book Boost: Oh, Robin. I looooooooooove that closet! I, too, wander around my house trying to find a place to sit undisturbed but with multiple kids (two under the age of 4) it is a rare moment of peace in my humble abode. I did take the leap this year to create my own writer's cave in my baby's old nursery (about the size of a small closet) but I still rarely get to sit there undisturbed. Maybe someday. Sigh. Please tell us more about your latest!
One night of passion...
Detective Jackson Cantrell never imagined that one night with an irresistible stranger would turn his life upside down. He’s spent years living in the shadows, but Dr. Michaela Roarke awakened a passion inside him he'd buried years ago.
He never expected the woman would turn out to be the governor's daughter...and his next assignment. The governor blackmails Jackson to secretly watch over Michaela and protect her from a stalker, or kiss his dream job at the FBI good-bye. Swearing to keep things strictly professional, Jackson moves in with Michaela. Too bad his heart can't keep the same promise.
But when the stalker's attacks quickly escalate beyond mere photographs to bodily harm, Jackson must race to save Michaela's life. And he’ll have to figure out how to keep her once she discovers his lie.
Mr. Sex-on-a-Stick took his last shot and accepted the congratulatory thumps on the back from his friends. He didn’t smile in response, just quirked his full, sensual lips and turned to face her head-on with an expression full of hot promise. Catcalls and low whistles from his friends drifted across the crowded bar.
Come on, handsome. Don’t let me strike out at my first real bar pickup.
The breath she didn’t realize she was holding whooshed out as he separated himself from his friends and headed over to her. His movements were precise, controlled, and deliciously predatory. He possessed the confident demeanor of either military or law enforcement. He definitely wasn’t a paper-pushing warlord or a politico. Years of experience trained her to spot those guys a mile away. No, his mask of control was one born of the need for survival, much like hers.
Okay, big boy. You let me peek behind yours and I’ll let you peek behind mine.
He stopped in front of her, his thigh brushing her leg and setting off a series of sparks underneath her skin. His chocolate brown eyes met hers, filled with the assurance of decadent possibilities.
Michaela opened her mouth and shut it again. Now that he was here, she had no idea what to say. What would Angelina do? Channel your inner Jolie.
She cleared her throat. The result was a sultry, sexy voice she didn’t know she possessed. “May I buy you a drink?”
He glanced at the glass in her hand and nodded.
“A Southern Comfort.” She spoke in the general direction of the bartender, unable to tear herself away from her companion. “Neat.”
He slid onto the stool next her, his leg still against hers and her temperature hovering near the boiling point. He leaned on the bar, creating their own intimate circle as the noise of the busy bar faded into the background. His lips curved into a slight smile.
“Is there something funny?”
“No. Not at all.” His deep voice rumbled in her ear, his warm breath grazed her cheek. “I didn’t take you for the whiskey type.”
“And what type am I?”
He leaned back, examining her ice-blue satin, strapless cocktail dress and matching Manolo Blahnik pumps. She squirmed in her seat as her body responded to the desire pulsing between them.
“Honestly?” He cocked his head. “You strike me as the chardonnay type. A proper drink for a proper lady.”
She laughed. Any other night, his description would have been close to the mark. “Whiskey’s a drink of control and power.” She took another sip and caught his stare over the rim of her glass.
“I see.” He lifted his glass and downed the contents, then turned his full attention back to her.
“So…why are you drinking alone?”
“I’m not drinking alone. Now.” Michaela gestured toward his drink and ordered him another when he nodded.
“Okay, so you’re here…?”
“Celebrating my new life.”
“Aahhh.” He lifted his glass to her in salute. “Let me be the first to say that your ex-husband is an idiot.”
Want More Robin?
Visit her on the web here: http://robincovingtonromance.com/
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