Title: Bee Stings
Author: RosaLinda Diaz
Genre: Chicklit
The decisions we make create and destroy us. Fourth grade teacher Poppy Rodriguez thinks she has all the answers, and realizes, perhaps too late, that she needs schooling in just about every area, especially love--oh, and baking.
A novice in the kitchen and the bedroom Poppy samples both, while surrendering to Michael Borchard’s irresistible charm, when she joins his baking class. There are a couple hiccups––it’s a kids’ class, and he’s married. Poppy and Michael improvise a recipe for passion that hits all the right spots. Their honeyed entanglement becomes increasingly sticky as his wife and her past muddy their budding romance. Is love stronger than circumstances, or will Poppy succumb to the sweetest temptation?
Author Bio
About the Author: RosaLinda Diaz, was raised in a particularly magical section of Los Angeles; between the original Disney Hyperion Studios and Snow White’s Cottages. The magic in the air and soil gave her already active imagination roots and wings. Wings that took her gypsying around Europe, Australia, and Africa, and roots that brought her back to California to earn her B.A. at Pepperdine University. She makes her home in California’s Central Coast igniting the fire of creativity and sparking imaginations with her endeavors.
Links
Twitter: @GitanaRosa
Buy a copy of the book:
Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/bee-stings-rosalinda-diaz/1118890955?ean=2940149392063
Book Excerpts
Excerpt #1
I completely forgot to buy pastries this morning. The ominous, glowing, red digital clock on the wall reads eight fourteen. There are exactly eleven minutes for me to go to the supermarket three miles away, fight morning drop-off traffic, and set up the teachers’ lounge. After weighing my options of not providing treats today, versus facing Michael, I take a deep breath, zip my Sunny Vale Elementary hoodie, and start walking.
The little bell tinkles as I step inside the bakery. I’m instantly surrounded by the warm inviting scent of baking bread. There’s no one behind the counter, and I let out the breath I’m holding.
“Hello?” I call to the empty room. “Michael? I need your help.” There is no reply, or noise of any kind from the kitchen. “It’s Fat Friday, right now, and I totally forgot. Help.”
Michael appears, grinning roguishly. He looks incredibly sexy with his bed-head, white T-shirt, faded jeans and red apron; he’s sort of a more domestic, approachable bad boy, but with the same rakish edge. I need to stop coming here.
“So, that’s what it takes. I’ll make a mental note,” he says, and slides two large, bubblegum-pink bakery boxes across the counter.
I’m speechless.
“It’s not like you haven't been doing this all year, every six weeks right? I just figured you forgot to call in your order last night.” He opens a box to reveal the most delectable pastries imaginable. They look even better than the ones in the display cases.
“You’ve just saved my life,” I say, strongly resisting the urge to vault over the counter. “There’s no telling the wrath that would have been unleashed if I’d shown up empty-handed.”
“My pleasure, and there’s no charge,” he replies, blushing, or maybe it’s just hot in here.
“I can’t let you do that. Please, let me pay,” I say, nudging the credit card along the box edge.
“Why won’t you join my baking class?” he says, pushing the credit card toward me. “Once you master the basic principles, I’ll create an expanded lesson just for you. Then you’ll be learning more and feel like you’re getting your money’s worth. How about it?” he says in practically a whisper... our little secret. He gently grasps my hand.
The bakery door flies open; three of my former students, followed closely by a trendy mom wearing a pink velour track suit, stroll inside. He releases my hand.
“You realize this will give my students reason to mock me for the rest of the year,” I tell him.
“But the year’s half over,” he says, watching as I pick up the pastry boxes. “Is that smile a yes?”
“See you Tuesday,” I reply.
The heat of his gaze follows me to the door, but the brisk spring air slaps me across the face and back to
reality. I’m late.
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