Just kidding, they hadn’t buried me yet!

Seriously though, I’ve been very ill, but I’m on the mend and am powering through the final line edits for Heart of Flame – for which I’ll have a release date in the next couple of weeks! Hint: it’s gonna be sooooon,

Speaking of Heart of Flame, here’s a snippet.

With an armful of jeans, T-shirts, and trunks in various sizes, Misha knocked on Chuck’s door. When he didn’t respond, she knocked again, harder. If he was still in the shower, he might not hear her in spite of preternaturally good hearing—the walls of the Wayward Heart were thick and reinforced with privacy warding for added discretion. If the bathroom door was closed and the water was running, he definitely wouldn’t have heard her.

Her stomach grumbled. She’d burned through a hell of a lot of energy tonight, and the slice of apple pie before had barely touched the sides. She wasn’t going to wait around for Chuck to finish marinating just so she could personally hand him the fresh clothes. While he stood there in a towel, wet and steamy from the—

Definitely not going to do that. Not when she should be downstairs grabbing something to eat so she didn’t get any grumpier than she already was.

Misha let herself in. Yep, shower was still running. She plopped the fresh clothes on the bed and was about to hightail it out of there when she noticed the neatly folded pile of Chuck’s old clothes on the chair by the bathroom door. May as well take them down to be laundered. He’d taken the holster, his belt, and his unloaded gun into the bathroom with him; his boots and socks were under the chair, placed with precision.

For some reason imagining the big, rough-looking vampire carefully folding his dirty clothes and tucking his socks into his boots made Misha’s heart twist.

She gathered the clothes up and resisted the urge to lift them to her face and get his scent. What the hell is wrong with me? Instead, she headed resolutely for the door. That was when the shower shut off. Her heart skipped a beat and she shot an irrational look over her shoulder, sure the bathroom door was going to open. Then she smacked into the end of the bed, smarted her knee on the wooden post, and hissed a very dirty word in a language that had been dead for at least three thousand years.

The sound had barely left her when suddenly Chuck was standing right there.

He’d moved so fast, he was in front of her before Misha’s brain even registered the sound of the bathroom door slamming open. His eyes blazed black with twin points of gold burning in their depths, the vampire instincts in full control, his stark face devoid of any recognition.

Misha went utterly still, not even daring to breathe. The overhead lights flickered, responding to Chuck’s power. She’d startled him. He’d been in the shower—naked, warm, unable to hear anything over the water. In other words, vulnerable. And she’d startled him.

The next sound she registered was the wet, ripping snarl rolling out from behind Chuck’s bared teeth.

Speaking of wet . . .

Water trickled down from Chuck’s short hair, down his thickly corded neck, over shoulders wide enough for Misha to perch on. His vast chest was inches from her face and beaded with moisture, his light golden skin still smooth as silk—a human male’s skin would be pebbled from the contrast of heat and water and cooling air. His pecs were huge slabs of muscle, his nipples dusky and flat, practically begging Misha to brush her fingers across them so she could watch the fine muscles in his torso clench in response. A dusting of dark hair trailed from his chest down toward his navel, and lower . . . and then Misha slammed her eyes shut.

No towel.