The song commenced.

Mama nodded, a wistful expression on her face. “Mmmhmm,” she uttered, as if she was confirming it was the same song. The melody, voice, or meaning had not changed.

“We danced right there.” She pointed her finger, the joint swollen from age, to the spot where I stood. I looked down at the floor where my father held my mother, and slid off my shoes. I wanted my feet to touch the spot where his did.

“Do you want to dance?” I asked her.

She laughed hoarsely. “How?”

I walked over and wheeled her to the spot. Then I took her hands and stepped side to side as she sat in front of me. She let out a throaty chortle. And then she became quiet. Her eyes grew watery as the shroud of nostalgia enveloped her.

When the song ended, I turned down the volume and wheeled my mother back towards the fireplace.

“You know sometimes I wonder,” she started, “Bobby never got ugly. He never saw a wrinkle. He's still that tall, rugged, handsome boy with that smile and those eyes. But me . . .” she chuckled. “Oh, I've seen better days.”

“I'm sure he'll think you are as beautiful as the day you danced here,” I murmured, holding in my tears.

“Sometimes I wonder if things would have always been so perfect. We never had the chance to get sick of each other, fight over money or plans, or his honey-do list. We always wanted more. We were always stealing away. So many people take that for granted. But maybe that's a small blessing. That everything we had was perfect and frozen in time.”

“Maybe, mama,” I answered.

She glanced towards the window. “Can we go to the dock?” she asked. “The sunsets are beautiful there.”

“Sure,” I replied.

The nurse and I carefully wheeled her down the rugged terrain and locked her wheelchair on a spot that faced a quiet lake and a lush forest. The sky bloomed with swirls of amber and blush. The occasional bird launched out from the gold and champagne-colored water. I could see why it was her favorite place.

I sat beside her with my feet dangling off the dock. I let her have this time, taking in the spot where she used to sneak off in the night. Where she would cool off from the summer heat and spend time with the boy she didn't even know she loved. So much had changed since then, but if you stared out to the horizon, I was certain it looked like nothing had. If she just focused her gaze out there, Bobby was still alive. She was just a girl waiting for him to show up. I think that's why she chose this spot.

The sky had grown dark. And now the browns, oranges and pinks had been traded for jet black sprinkled with twinkling lights. The breeze suddenly began to pick up and I worried she might get too cold.

“Alright mom. We should get you in bed.” I placed my hand on her lap. She didn't respond. “Mom?”

I stood up to take a better look. Her eyes were closed and her expression serene. Not quite a smile, something more permanent. I checked for her pulse and I knew she was gone.

I sobbed as I caressed her thin white hair, once so lush and dark. I thought I would only feel sadness at this moment, but that was before I knew. Before I understood that she had waited her whole life to finally be with dad. And I hoped she would look as beautiful as she did during that last summer they had shared.

There are so many people to be grateful for, and I couldn't possibly remember them all. But here are a few people who had a hand in helping me get Swelter to where it is today:

Meg Botteon, who is never afraid to tell me when something sounds awful, and usually makes me chuckle in the process, but is also one of my biggest cheerleaders.

Tiffany Torres, my “alpha” reader, PA and friend who looks past the typos and run-ons to be my sounding board as I mold new stories and characters.

Angela Bonnie Shockley aka That Formatting Lady, another person who lends her opinions early in the process, but also puts a beautiful bow on the story at the very end.

Jen Leisenheimer of Beyond the Cover Editing for being my safety net and using her keen eye to make the final words on the page crisp and polished.

Holden's Hussies, I am so grateful to have your support, but most importantly, I am grateful for the friends I have made because of this group.

Bloggers, there are so many of you, big or small, I appreciate every review, every mention and share. I would not be able to do what I do, if it wasn't for people like you.

My readers, you are the best. I try to get better with each book because of you. Thank you, thank you, thank you for picking up that first book of mine, whether it be Strapped, or GRS, or DEBT. For once taking a chance on a name you may never have heard of.

My husband, my best friend. The man who when I told sheepishly I was writing my first novel, replied “That's great!” I know how to write about love because of you. Until the next book!

STRAPPED SERIES

(Erotica Suspense/Mystery)

STRAPPED

STRAPPED DOWN

UNSTRAPPED

Read on for more information on Nina’s other works:

GORGEOUS ROTTEN SCOUNDREL

(Standalone Erotic Romance/Comedy)

DEBT

(Standalone Dark Erotic Suspense)

IF

(Standalone New Adult Contemporary Romance)

Gorgeous Rotten Scoundrel, a standalone novel by Nina G. Jones

In the mood for some hot, snarky humor?

“Gorgeous Rotten Scoundrel is officially on my top romance list for this year.” - Danielle of This Redhead LOVES Books

“I loved this book. Easily a 5-star for me. I love a book where it is written so perfectly that you feel every emotion.” - Give Me Books

“Gorgeous, Sassy, Witty, Flirty, Ballsy and Smoking hot.....grab me a washcloth I am ready to give a bed bath!” - All Booked Out

The blurb:

He was a pig, a jerk, selfish, callous, crude, tactless, prone to outbursts and gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous where you didn’t even attempt to hide the fact that you were staring. I knew the type: His entire life he has coasted on his good looks, artificial charm, and sex appeal. Everyone wanted to be him or be ON him. I had been hurt by jerks like him before. He was like those guys but far worse.

I was the unfortunate sucker to be offered a gig I desperately needed as his live-in chef for a Summer in the Hamptons. But I wasn’t like the other girls--the models and socialites who came through the revolving door of his bedroom. I would bite the bullet, take the job, deal with his sexist comments, his expectation that I would fawn over him, and have no problem letting the door hit my ass on the way out when I was done with the gig.

Then something unexpected happened that changed everything and I realized that there may be more to him than the labels I had affixed to his character. Maybe.

But if he really wanted me, it wasn’t going to be easy, not like everything else in his life. He was going to have to work, I was going to make him miserable. He was going to hate wanting me just as much as I hated myself for wanting him back. Heath Hillabrand: International Supermodel. Womanizer. Gorgeous, Rotten, Scoundrel.