Writer Wednesday--Robin Lovett

I'm happy to welcome Robin Lovett to my blog this week! ~N.J.

Robin Lovett: Racing To You

It’s summer time. A time for travel, a time for vacation, a time for leisure reading, and so I invite you to treat yourself to a trip to France with RACING TO YOU. (Sexy athletes in spandex included.)

 

Love—the one roadblock they never expected.

Aurelia is living her dream, teaching for a year in the south of France. Except it’s all going wrong. The carefree culture is challenging her academic goals, and her students are so difficult that she wants the unthinkable: to give up and go home.

Meeting Terrence doesn’t help. When he’s not training for the Tour de France, the cocky pro cyclist is flirting with Aurelia, but she didn’t cross an ocean to hook up with an American jock, even if he does have killer dimples and looks hot in spandex.

Until the jock sets out to prove he’s more than mere muscle. He wants to teach her what having fun really means, which could be as dangerous to her structured life as it is to her heart.

As life hits unexpected roadblocks, they turn to one another for support, and flirtation becomes game-changing love. But Terrence is chasing his dream of being the fastest man on two wheels, and she isn’t sure how far he’ll go to win…or how far she’s willing to follow.

Warnings: Includes a hopelessly romantic hero, a guilt-free sex proposition, a lot of orgasms and, of course, croissants. 

 

Excerpt:

The American guy shifts his feet, and his thigh contracts, bulges, like the muscle beneath the spandex is a singular living thing. It puckers around his knee cap. A physical manifestation of explosive power.

 

My cappuccino cup suspends in mid-air, all pretense of drinking it gone. I’m not someone who goes starry-eyed over guys. They’re just muscles. He’s just a man, but I can’t seem to help my gaze shifting upward, crossing over his crotch, where if I look too closely, I’ll notice things I don’t want to. Or I do want to. My throat works, and I might be turning scarlet, but the dizzying pizzazz of his uniform draws my eyes up and up.

 

I reach his face, and I jolt.

 

His light-brown eyes glow like amber, and one winks at me. “Do you speak English, sweetheart?” He has this dimple that divots in one cheek. If he were in a museum, I’d stare at him all day.

 

Maybe if I don’t respond, he’ll think I really am French and don’t understand his English. Unlikely. I’m totally missing the French je ne sais quoi. I’m not stylish, I’m not skinny, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t affect their suave manner. And since my parents are Filipino, add in my skin and features… Not many people mistake me for French.

 

Wait, he called me “sweetheart”. I am not sweet. I cement my eyes back to my book and mutter, “Go away, sweetheart.”

 

“Is that a yes?”

 

Damn it. I need my “social leper” sign. It doesn’t matter if I want to talk to him; my propensity to say the wrong thing has gotten me laughed at more than once.

 

The barista tattles on me. “Elle est américaine.” His thin lips stretch in a wry smile.

 

“Really?” The jock walks toward me. His shoes clap on the floor, but his swagger is louder, with more cockiness and attitude than a star footballer.

 

My heart lurches into panic mode.

 

He stops in front of me and rests his helmet against his hip. “What’re you reading?” He gestures with his espresso cup at my book.

 

I need relief from the nerves fusing in my gut. “Leave me alone.”

 

Jeers come from his teammates by the door. “Braker burns,” one says.

 

Braker. That’s a weird name.

 

He watches me, like he’s waiting for me to say more. The need to speak with someone from the same country as me wings like a caged bird in my chest. I want to say, “I’m Aurelia. Where are you from? What’s with the bike riding?”

 

His finger doodles on the page of my book, soft and swirling. It’s such a man’s hand, even his knuckles are muscular. “All right, Frenchie,” he says with mock forlorn.

 

“Frenchie?” My eyes flip up.

 

His lips curve in a smile so contagious that mine lift like he’s tugging them on a string. It’s been a long time since I smiled, as in full-face, cheek-bending, real deal smiled.

 

It somehow unravels my tongue. “How come you’re not having a croissant?”

 

“They’re good, huh?” He licks his finger and glides it over the crumbs on my empty plate. The leftover flakes stick to his finger. He sucks them into his mouth.

 

He has a mouth. And lips. Delectable and soft.

 

Duh, of course he has a mouth. My brain is pudding.

 

“Braker, let’s ride,” his friend says up front.

 

His eyes travel my face, like he’s searching for something. “See you tomorrow.” Then, with a wide walk and clapping shoes, he follows the other cyclists out the door.

  

Robin Lovett writes sexy contemporary romances, and Racing To You is her debut novel. Her next series, Bad Boys of Blackmail is scheduled for release the summer of 2017.

She enjoys writing romance to avoid the more unsavory things in life, like day jobs and housework. To feed her coffee and chocolate addictions, she loves overdosing on mochas. When not writing with her cat, she’s busy embracing untamable curly hair, cycling with her husband or adventuring in the outdoors with a laptop in her bag and a book in her hand. 

 

You can add Racing To You to your TBR Goodreads list or add it directly to your Kindle. Other purchase links and more sexy excerpts are available on her website www.RobinLovett.com. She loves to chat on Twitter @LovettRomance, and you can find her every Sunday evening with other romance writers at #RWChat. She’s also on Facebook at www.facebook.com/LovettRomance.