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About the author:
C.C. Dowling is an author who writes everything from gritty urban fantasy, to paranormal sci-fi, all with a bit of heat.
C.C. currently lives in America's finest city, with her husband (the financial shaman), her two children (who love to play in the yard with the faeries), and her very real pet dragon (who guards the perimeter of her house at night).
When she’s not working or writing (which is still technically working), C.C. can be
found playing a round of disc golf, or desperately trying to figure out which pair of sandals are the most appropriate for the harsh Southern California winters.
What inspired you to write your book?
Inspiration for this story struck after a fellow author had asked me to be in a fantasy romance collection with her.
I was in a Pilates class and had on a patterned green jacket. When the instructor told me I looked like a Lost Boy, I knew what my story had to be about!
Here is a short sample from the book:
Wearing nothing more than a gossamer shift, not even covering her bare essentials, is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my weary, jaded, definitely single-too-long eyes on. Figures, after the shit text I just got, and the reminder why I’d sworn off women, someone like her would fall into my life. No, not fall. Fight.
Drops of blood from my wound drip onto the ground as beams of moonlight, and the dull rays from the scattered garden lights, shimmer off her skin. The deep, rich tone reminds me of the black calla lilies my grandmother used to grow outside her window. She’d always said getting them to grow in New York’s climate required a lot of love. I wonder if that same love is what made this woman into the nymph before me.
Pull yourself together, Deryk, my inner voice warns. The hotter they are, the more likely they’ll run, and the more it’s bound to hurt when they do. Another lesson thanks to Mariana, and screw this. I might know better, but I can’t help but drink in the stranger’s body with my eyes like a shot of whiskey after a year of sobriety.
The creamy smoothness of her thighs and arms, and the swell of her breasts, is unblemished perfection. It’s clear she’s never had to spend one day in the harsh reality of New York winters. Her hair looks as if strands of moonlight settled on her head and curled in on itself to get closer to her body. I want to get closer, too.
Dammit. When did I become such a sappy, romantic poet? Moonlight hair. Calla lily skin. It’s a good thing the boys from the bar can’t see inside my head right now. They’d never let me live this down.