I’m doing the thing I usually do about 70-75{43d0d1614ecc8ec385b3ea9940a88627e26eaf9be88a0641399e0be0c80ef276} through each novel, when I typically arrive at the climax. I go back and reread the thing as I send chapters to my beta readers. This allows me to clean things up, weave things in that need to be weaved for the climax to have the pull I need it to. It also allows me to smile at some lovely moments between the characters that leave me feeling like all the hand I had in it was transcribing it. Like they really lived this out in my head.

Here’s a piece of Chasing Kane, coming in April, told from Regan Kane’s POV.

Enjoy.

***

Taking a deep breath at the end of just over a minute of exhausting playing—Flight of the Bumblebee is as much of a workout as going for a run—I set my arms down and rolled my neck side to side, ready to play again. Before I could raise my instrument back up to my shoulder, however, a soft clap came from the far back of the old opera house, commanding my attention.
Because the stage lights were still on, I had to duck my head and squint to make out the figure now walking toward me.
“Georgia?” I asked softly, not wanting to get my hopes up since she told me she was running late.
“Regan Kane?” she answered back, putting on her best fangirl impression.
Carefully, I set the violin on the stage, then leapt the four-feet down, grinning like the love-struck fool I was as I walked toward her.
“The one and only,” I finally answered, wrapping my arms around her waist.
She squealed for a split second as I lifted her off the ground, circling once with her pressed close to my body before setting her down and planting one hell of a road-weary kiss on her full, painted red lips. Cadillac red, as always.
“Miss me?” she questioned, trying to sound sarcastic, but I could hear slight relief in her voice. It didn’t startle me—she always sounded that way. Surprised that I might actually miss the love of my life.
She still wasn’t used to being loved unconditionally. Not all the time, though are any of us ever prepared to receive that?
I surprised her again, lifting her up and setting her on the stage in front of me before I lowered my forehead, resting it on the warm, soft tops of her thighs.
“You have no idea,” I sighed through my answer.
Her hands touched the top of my head, soft as she gently raked her short, black-painted fingernails down my scalp a few times, as if coaxing a feral cat. There’s a bit of stray in every road musician, and Georgia always recognized when mine needed to be nurtured.

***

xo

andrea