Tuesday Special: Red L. Jameson - With These Wings

Red L. Jameson

www.redljameson.com

     For more than a thousand years Samuella Dís has been a fairy godmother. The fairy title is ironic, since she’s a dís—an ancient society of all-female, winged, immortal avengers who paint their toenails with reckless abandon and have difficulties with real swearwords. However, something’s wrong with Sam’s latest assignment. Her newest orphan is a six-foot-three soldier, who’s indubitably handsome, and a flausching man. Not a boy at all, but a flinging flanging man!
     Luke Anderson is home barely a week when he loses his parents in a drunk driving accident. Already plagued by nightmares from his tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, he’s not sure how much more he can take. And maybe he’s gone a bit crazy because he can’t keep his eyes off one spunky strawberry blonde at his parents’ funeral—inappropriate, right? But she offers so much comfort in those huge amber eyes of hers, and, hey, it’s not like the world would end if he hit on the woman.
     Since the dís are a dwindling species, The Norns, Sam’s bosses, are trying to matchmake Sam and Luke. Only, the last time they played cupids England almost collapsed. Plus, there’s the issue of human men going insane once they’ve had sex with a dís. And Sam could die from a broken heart. Oh, and there’s the little matter of when a dís gets upset she can cause apocalyptic events. But it might be worth it for love. Then again, the Norns have been stalking Oprah lately, and there’s no guessing if they’re merely insane or certifiably brilliant.

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Excerpt:
     “I never sleep,” she said.
     “Never?”
     Now she smiled. “Of course I sleep. I mean, I don’t when I’m—I don’t need—I mean, I slept with you.”
     “I noticed.”
     She reached a hand out, almost touching his cheek, but stopped. “Are you okay?”
     He had to refrain from wincing. Again, he was reminded she was here for him because she wanted to comfort him. She didn’t want to get in his pants and see what the hell had inappropriately sprung to life.
     She probably thought him too old. He was too old for her. But as soon as he’d told himself as much, the thought flickered away like a spring butterfly, especially as he looked down at her wide lucid brown eyes.
     He nodded. “Are you okay?”
     “I—” she looked genuinely perplexed. “I never sleep.”
     “You sure about that?” he teased.
     She grinned again. “I sound like a broken record, don’t I?”
     “Do kids your age still use that expression? Do you even know what a broken record is?”
     She laughed. “Hey, I’ve listened to many a Forty-Five in my day.”
     He popped his brows up. “I’m impressed. You even know the lingo. But don’t tell me you listen to records because the sound quality is better.”
     “It is better.”
     He rolled onto his back, flinging his free hand over his eyes. “God, you’re not one of those, are you?”
     She scooted closer to him. Now, she propped herself up on an elbow and looked down at him, but his arm was still under her. “Who are those?”
     “Those people who talk on and on about the difference between digital sound versus…I don’t know…versus anything else.”
     She shook her head. “There’s a huge difference in the sound quality. Can’t you hear it? Or are you too old?”
     He chuckled at her mocking, removing his hand from his face. “Okay. I have to know. How old are you, missy?”
     “Missy?”
     “Yeah, missy.”
     Her smile turned mischievous. “I can’t tell you how old I am.”
     “Why not?” He suddenly swallowed. “Jesus, you are over eighteen, aren’t you? Oh god.”
     She started to laugh as he placed his hand over his face again. “I’m older than eighteen, yes.”
     “Thank god.”
     “I’m quite a bit older than eighteen.”
     “I doubt it.”
     She bit her bottom lip, still not telling him, and in the process giving him a heart attack from worrying she was much too young. Or maybe his heart was spasming because he loved this fun banter they had.
     Deciding to confess his age, he said, “I’m thirty-three. Am I…ten years older than you?”
     “No.”
     “Twelve years older than you?”
     “I’m not twenty-one.”
     “Are you older than twenty-one?”
     “Of course I am.” She rolled her eyes.
     “Twenty-two?”
     She sighed. “Okay, I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell anyone.”
     “Or you’ll have to kill me? Are you a spy? Is your age a national security issue?”
     She giggled, shaking her head. “Ready, Mr. Smarty Pants?”
     He took in a dramatic breath. “I’m bracing myself. Hit me with it.”
     Her smile fell away as she said, “I’m one thousand, seven hundred twenty-six years old.”
     “Wow, that’s—that’s very detailed.”

About Red:
     As a military historian by day, sometimes Red does feel a bit clandestine when she writes romance at night. No one knows that while she researches heroes of the past and present, she uses everything for her characters in her books. Her secret's been safe . . . until now.
     She lives in Montana with her family and far too many animals but never enough books.
     She loves her readers, so please feel free to contact her at http://www.redljameson.com


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