An Author
Hi Family and Friends,
Happy first week of November! I hope your Halloween was full of fun, laughs, and love. We have lots of Halloween candy left, and I’m trying to restrain myself from eating all the M&Ms! What’s your favorite candy?
This year, my daughter asked me what I wanted to be for Halloween. She dressed up as Mira from Huntrix, while my son went as a dirt bike rider. I thought about what I wanted to ‘be’ for a few days and considered dressing up like Claire Fraser, but the beautiful Claire-inspired shawl I’d been eyeing couldn’t be sent from the UK due to new custom regulations. Still, the more I thought about what I wanted to be, the more I realized that I already knew: an author.
Because of you and others, this dream has come true. And one day, I’ll achieve my dream of becoming a full time author, doing what I love every single day—writing stories of incredible love and sweet possibilities.
Holding two of my books, inlcuding my newest release, Where the Stars Burn!
Where the Stars Burn, my witty, opposites-attract romcom about the risks and rewards of taking a chance on yourself, love, and an unknown future debuted October 25th worldwide and is available in paperback, digital, and also on Kindle Unlimited.
I admit, I never expected to launch a book, while my husband, Charles, recovered (and continues to recover) from brain surgery. I didn’t get all the marketing preparation done. I didn’t film social media content that I’d planned. I even forgot to post my October blog I’d written. Taking care of a loved one after life-saving surging and recovery is a lot. And although I know I could’ve done more for this release, I’ve needed to give myself grace. We all do, don’t we?
I’m also happy to report Charles is near six weeks into recovery and is getting stronger every day. And although we’ve experienced our share of struggles and surprises post surgery, we’ve been blessed with beautiful moments with our little family, playing board games with the kids, cheering on our favorite baseball teams, and enjoying the fall sunshine.
I was also blessed to celebrate Where the Stars Burn’s release at In Bloom Bookery with a book signing, scavenger hunt, and fun giveaway. I made custom bookmarks, stickers, as well as a candy jar.
My book event set-up at In Bloom Bookery in Temecula, CA. I loved having both books on display!
My sweet friend, travel buddy, and bookie, Shanel, who attended the event with me. So grateful for her friendship!
I’m so proud of Where the Stars Burn. Sometimes, the path to love isn’t always easy as Andrea and Rory’s story illustrates, but it’s worth fighting for. With dual timelines, fiery clashes in the kitchen, a highland rescue, and irresistible slow-burn attraction, this novel weaves a story of love, vulnerability, and self-discovery and unexpected romance as two opposites learn to let go of the past and forge a new future together. In Where the Stars Burn, love is the boldest adventure of all.
I thought I’d share one of my favorite scenes with you. If you’ve read Where the Stars Burn, I’d love to know yours!
Except from Where the Stars Burn, Chapter 18
Copyright @Erica Mae
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“ ‘Tis me home. I’ll put something together for the two of us.”
With a mumble of “thanks,” Andrea followed him to the house. A moment later, she heard the squeak of a cabinet, followed by a clank of a board, and something unwrapping from the small adjoining kitchen. She tugged her boots off and propped her wool-socked feet atop the dark-stained coffee table with metal accents. But just as she was getting comfortable, something gleamed from the corner of the living room: an ornate sword with a meticulously-carved handle and long silver knife beside a few other pieces.
She rose and peered closer. The handle was smooth and glossy like mahogany, while the sterling silver at the top was inlaid with another material. In the center of the handle, a crest of five arrows in red and gold, and along the blade, an inscription in old-fashioned lettering, showing detail, skill, and precision all wrapped into a lethal, exquisite sword. But the man who crafted the weapon was so unassuming. She glanced at his wide, broad back as he hunkered over a small, wooden cutting board, peeling potatoes. “Yours, I assume?”
Lifting his head, he met her gaze. “Aye.” He set down the peeler and ambled around the tidy kitchen. “The other two are from the eighteenth century. I collect a few, as well.”
“Really?” She leaned in, admiring the craftsmanship. She’d seen his moving van and witnessed him sharpening a blade or two on set, but she hadn’t realized what a craftsman Rory was. “You’d never know yours is a reproduction. It’s really well done.” When she shifted to touch the knife, she realized Rory stood less than an arm’s length from her. Awareness hummed through her body.
“Thank ye.”
She peered closer. “What does the inscription mean?”
“Aonaibh Ri Chéile,” he said in Gaelic. “Let us unite. The Cameron motto.”
“You’re an artist.”
The corners of his lips twitched into a slow smile. “Like ye with food.”
She waved away his compliment. “I’m just a cook.”
With a shake of his head, he stepped a rough boot forward, gray eyes skimming her face.
Her pulse quickened.
“When ye put yer heart and soul into something, it shows. And that’s what you’ve done with yer cooking. I’ve been fortunate to eat a few of yer meals, and now, so has the cast and crew of Swords. ’Tis something to be proud of.”
“Thank you. It was an experience, let me tell you.” She turned to focus on the sword display on the wall, rather than the hammering within. “Can I hold one?”
With one hand, he lifted the huge sword by the beautifully detailed handle and extended it, handle out. “Have at it, lass.”
She grasped the handle above his hand, gripping the soft leather. The sword was larger than she thought, and she narrowly wrapped her hands around it.
“Careful, now.” Rory glided his hand down the knife blade.
As the full weight of the sword swelled between her hands, she felt her arm strength wither like she held an anvil. The sword’s tip immediately pitched toward the ground. She grasped the handle tighter, putting her weight into preventing the sword from crashing embarrassingly. “Wow, this is as heavy as it looks.”
“Aye, ’tis.”
“I imagine this is a warrior’s sword?” She eyed the hefty sword. “A man’s, right?”
He nodded.
She huffed a breath. “A woman could’ve easily handled this sword as well as any man with some training.” She lifted the sword with a grunt until she pointed the weapon at a seventy-five-degree angle toward Rory in challenge.
Lifting a large hand, he tipped the sword down by the width of the blade. “’Tis possible, but not likely. If ye were a lass in the eighteenth century, ye’d have a sgian-dubh tucked under yer stocking for protection.” He gestured toward the smaller knife on the wall.
Andrea gazed at the miniature, sharp blade, while trying to hold onto the damned heavy beast in her hand. Hugh held a similar sword in Swords and that boiled her blood. She whipped her gaze at Rory. “It looks lethal enough, but why did they always give women the small blades? Oh, right, chauvinism in the eighteenth century, of course.”
He studied her, gray eyes darkening in the shadows of the night. He moved in slow, gaze set on hers until she bumped into the wall. Rory’s large hand encircled the sword handle, rough fingers brushing over hers and forearm grazing her breast as he dislodged the sword from her grasp.
“Oh.” She laughed and smiled. But Rory wasn’t smiling, and he had an edge of danger as he easily hung the sword and moved closer, never taking his gaze off her until he pressed firmly against her torso to torso, hip to hip. He set one hand on the wall opposite her hip and the other beside her head, trapping her. Heat radiated off him and that sharp metal and woodsy scent of his snuck up her nostrils. She licked her lips and stared at his full ones.
“When yer this close, it doesna matter how big yer sword is.”
Andrea’s mouth watered, and every part of her fired, including the part pressed against his bulge. This close, she was thinking about another sword entirely.
He stepped back. “Tea?”
Andrea expelled a breath and pressed a hand to the wall. She would not swoon, but hot damn. She’d underestimated him. The quiet man was Mr. Sexy. Her underwear held the proof.
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