Welcome the lovely Rachel Harris!
A universal theme in pretty
much everything I write, from sweet and funny to deeper and emotional, is the
idea of masks. So many of us wear them, whether we intend to or not, and I love
exploring that concept, whether it is trying on a new identity or shedding one.
Another big theme is humor and flirtatiousness. I’m a romance junkie and while I
love exploring relationships of all kinds (friendships, parental, and love),
you can count on romance popping up in a Rachel Harris book. Hence, my author
tagline, Unmask Your Inner-Flirt.
I thought it’d be fun to
explore that concept with my main character, Cat Crawford. This is an
EXCLUSIVE, EXTRA SCENE you won’t find anywhere else. (Even in the book!) It
takes place within the scenes, right before an important turning point. I hope
you enjoy!
***
The
rhythmic trotting of horse hooves alerts me that our company has arrived.
I grin at my reflection in the small, round
mirror. “It’s time to unmask my inner-Angeli.”
Back home I may be plain old boring and aloof
Cat Crawford, art geek and daughter of Hollywood royalty, but Lucia’s right.
Here I can be whoever I want to be. And from this point forward, I’m choosing
to be Patience D’Angeli—a sixteenth-century London-transplant/ brand new
Florentine, with zero mama drama weighing her down.
Glancing out my open window, I see Lorenzo step down
from the carriage. There’s no denying the boy is hotter than Hades. And now
seems as good a time as any to experiment with my new role. Pursing my lips and
tapping them with an extended finger, I ask myself, what would Patience do now?
The answer: tear through the palazzo and down to
the courtyard as if the paparazzi were chasing her.
Last night on the way home, Cipriano mentioned
he’d send the carriage to pick up Lorenzo first thing in the morning, giving
himself time to meet with Uncle—no doubt going over intense figures and
calculations—before our outing. I swear that boy is in serious need of a vacay.
And as for Alessandra, despite the super-sonic perkiness she exudes the rest of
the time, she’s actually the exact opposite of a morning person, dragging her
feet for at least an hour after her maid wakes her. But both of these traits
suit my purposes this morning because it means that if I hurry, I’ll have a few
moments with Lorenzo to myself.
Laughing, I bolt through my bedroom door. I
mean, it’s not that I plan on really doing
anything with these stolen minutes. I might be freer in the sixteenth century
without the taint of my mother’s scandalous reputation and the mystique of
having an uber-famous dad, but I’m not that
free. I’m never gonna believe in all that sappy, romance novel crap, and I
have no intention of being added to Lorenzo’s growing list of groupies. The boy
may be a hottie, but I’m not falling for his Renaissance game.
I’m just curious to see if he’s a match for
mine…and if I even have any.
I burst into the courtyard and scan the quiet square.
Lorenzo’s stands a few feet in front of me, just before the trickling fountain.
He’s turned away, admiring the fountain like I’ve done so many times since
arriving a few days ago, so I let myself take a minute to appreciate the gift
of beauty that he is.
The tan fabric of his doublet stretches across
the breadth of his shoulders, outlining the muscles underneath. Disheveled blond
curls brush against his white collar. And though I can’t see Lorenzo’s
reflection, I can picture the chocolate depths of his eyes, the devastating
twist of his grin that always hints at mischievousness, and my favorite part, the
faintly crooked tooth his grin exposes.
I’m fascinated with that one imperfection.
In the midst of all Lorenzo’s swoon-worthy lines,
that one flaw, as tiny it may be, helps me remember that he’s just a guy….
…..a guy that happens to be a smooth talking
player-type.
“Patience, I feel the weight of your gaze.”
Startled from my thoughts—and still not really
loving the sound of that horrid name being attributed to me—I quickly school my
features before Lorenzo turns around. When he does, the right side of his mouth
is already kicked up in a grin.
Bingo.
There it is.
I zone in on that one flaw of his, and
begrudgingly admit that in the morning light it’s actually endearing.
Nevertheless, it exists—and it’s my one protection against my traitorous
hormones.
“Maybe I wanted you to know I was staring,” I
say, not even knowing where I’m going with this. I look up at him through
lowered lashes, kinda hating myself as I do for employing such a stereotypical
girlish move, and say, “You are
scrumptious eye candy ya know.”
A line of confusion crinkles between Lorenzo’s
eyebrows and I fight back a laugh. In this case, using my strange vocabulary will be an advantage. Since this flirting thing
is new to me, and I suck so very badly at it, I can take comfort in the fact
that he won’t understand me, anyway.
I’ve always believed that if such a thing as a
seductive gene existed, it either skipped me in the DNA pool or died a slow and
painful death due to years of non-use. But as I always say, if you project a
certain image with confidence, people tend to believe you. So, I decide to go
with it and see what happens.
Clasping my hands behind my back, I take a step
forward, effectively eliminating the distance between Lorenzo and I to a few
tiny steps. I’m rewarded for my boldness with the widening of his eyes and an
unmistakable flash of nervousness.
I do an internal jig of joy.
Unmasking
my inner-flirt might be easier than I thought.
And when Lorenzo’s darkened gaze sinks to my
mouth, my little jig transforms into a full-on Thanksgiving Day Rockettes
number, complete with jazz hands.
Lorenzo clears his throat. Raising his eyes
toward the open windows of the palazzo, he asks, “I presume Cipriano and
Alessandra will join us shortly?”
I nod but otherwise remain silent, enjoying holding
the power for once—not that I want to turn into Mama Dearest or anything. But hey,
making a gorgeous guy squirm is a heady thing. And it’s evident in the way Lorenzo
keeps shifting his weight that he is unaccustomed to a girl being the aggressor
in his flirtatious repartee. He’s more comfortable with them melting in a
puddle of drool at his feet.
Well, I guess my lack of swoonage is another
oddity they can blame on my being from London—the
euphemism I’ve adopted to explain away all my futuristic, twenty-first century
behavior. It’s become quite handy for my bazillion cultural mess-ups, but I
gotta say, I feel bad for giving Londoners such a bad rap.
Alessandra’s chirpy voice floats down from her second-story
window and I know my time alone with Lorenzo is almost over. Wanting to press
my advantage in these last stolen moments before he regains his player-footing,
I close the small remaining distance between us and press my open palm against
his chest.
Lorenzo’s breath catches audibly, and I grin. “I’m
looking forward to our day in the country, without any… interruptions.”
The majority of the words, of course, are his; ones
he told me just last night. But they seem to meet their purpose. Lorenzo’s
pupils dilate and the rate of his pulse accelerates against my hand. Once again,
his gaze lowers to my mouth, the heat of his stare simultaneously making me to
want to abort my mission and close my eyes.
His hands reach out and grasp my waist.
My breathing hitches.
And Alessandra begins descending the stairs.
“Cousin, are you out here already?”
Using the opened hand on his chest, I push away from
Lorenzo and turn to answer. “Yep, down here.” Then I step back and grin.
Unmask
your inner-flirt indeed.
Rachel Harris grew up in New Orleans, watching soap operas
with her grandmother and staying up late sneak reading her mom's favorite romance novels. Now a
Cajun cowgirl living in Houston, she still stays up too late reading her favorite romances,
only now, she can do so openly. She firmly
believes life's problems can be solved with a hot,
powdered-sugar-coated beignet or a thick slice of king cake, and that screaming at strangers for cheap, plastic
beads is acceptable behavior in certain situations.
She homeschools her two beautiful girls and loves watching
reality television with her amazing husband. She writes young adult, new adult, and adult Fun, Flirty Escapes, and LOVES talking with readers!
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About Rachel Harris:
Award-winning and Bestselling author Rachel Harris writes humorous love stories about sassy girls next door and the hot guys that make them swoon. Emotion, vibrant settings, and strong relationships are a staple in each of her books...and kissing. Lots of kissing.
An admitted Diet Mountain Dew addict and homeschool mom, she gets through each day by laughing at herself, hugging her kids, and watching way too much Food Network with her husband. She writes young adult, new adult, and adult romance, and LOVES talking with readers.
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