What happens when two bloggers fall for each other? A new blog is born.
A brand new romance is coming next month from author Rachel Blaufeld—a love story between two BLOGGERS—and I have the gorgeous cover for you, as well as a sneak peek.
He’s tall, lean, and muscular in track pants and a long-sleeved tee underneath a glow-in-the-dark skeleton-adorned apron. Jet-black hair, mussed across his forehead. Even under the darkening sky, I can tell he has deep olive-toned skin. His eyes, I’m not quite sure. Maybe dark.
I feel my feet walking toward the object of my desire, but suddenly halt them.
For a second, my brain kicks in and I take stock of my disheveled appearance. This isn’t how I want to meet the man I’ve internet-stalked for a week. The man my brother-in-law wants to emulate, supposedly to win the heart of an overeager preschool teacher. The man who grills shirtless and does it oh-so-well. Just yesterday, he made rosemary-and-thyme veal chops. I don’t believe in eating veal, have never even tried it, and I was salivating over my laptop.
Reid,Grill and Groom, whatever his last name is, doesn’t hide behind the anonymity of his laptop. Nope, he’s right out on the wild, wild web for anyone to see.
This man is everything I’m not. He writes a successful blog, puts his name out there. And now he’s standing a few feet from me, joking with my daughter and her friend like he has nothing better to do and all the time in the world to do it.
“Mom! Can we have two?”
“Ms. Andi, this guy said we could have two big bars! Can we?”
“Hey there . . .”
Three voices call to me, but I’m stuck in Reidville, the small town that had only just begun to grow in my mind. Not the real, live man currently calling out, “Hey there,” to me.
“Mom!” Gabby shouts, finally dragging me out of a dense mental fog.
“Um, are you sure?” I holler from where I’m standing, because there’s no way in hell I’m allowing myself to move any closer to the door.
“It’s no prob. Evening’s almost over, and I don’t want to be stuck with all this leftover candy,” Reid yells back.
He’s tall. I’m guessing six foot two or three based on the way he towers over the girls and his head almost meets the top of the door frame.
“Make sure to say thanks,” I tell the girls, my voice squeaking, the stupid crumpled coffee cup dangling in my hand.
“Would you like one?”
Reid, Reid, Reid, just let me get out of here alive with my limbs attached and my lungs still pumping air in and out.
But no, he can’t. The girls sing, “Thank you,” and he’s following them out to me, candy basket in hand.
I fight the urge to sniff under my pits again, but I can’t seem to stop my free hand from smoothing down the front of my shirt and gathering my cardigan tight across my belly. It’s flatter than most, but still—I’ve had a baby.
“Would you like one? To go with your coffee?” He’s dead center now, right in front of me, wearing flip-flops despite the chilly nighttime air, holding the basket with his strong hands I’ve seen pictured on the blog, working the grill.
I’m not gonna lie. I’ve fantasized about those hands working me . . . just about everywhere. Okay, everywhere.
I admit it. I ended up perusing this guy’s site more than I care to say.
Green. His eyes are dark green, deep like the forest, clear like the sea, inviting like a patch of moss.
A frog settles in my throat, and I can’t make a sound for fear it will alas be a croak.
I shake my head and clear my throat, banishing the toad. “Tempting, but no thanks.”
“Actually, I really do have apples, if that’s more appealing.” He cocks an eyebrow at me, light from the rising moon twinkling in his eyes.
Reid, Reid, Reid, go back to your grill.