Launching Romance into the stars.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

What I'm working on this week.

This week it's about big band, brass and sass, as I've been working on a 1NS story that has a WWII era swing party.

Which begs me to ask you. Can trumpet players be hot?

It wouldn’t be easy. Grace had lost a lot. George died while serving, and perhaps she was afraid to get attached for that reason. But he wasn’t her brother, and he wasn’t in Special Forces, out on the risky missions. He was Sergeant Frank Winters. Army trumpet player. Nice guy. Stubborn man, and crazy about his dead friend’s twin sister.

If she didn’t think he’d come after her with everything he had, she was mistaken. He lay back on the bed, closed his eyes and went over every option available. He may be a trumpet player, but he wasn’t a sissy and he sure as hell didn’t back down. George knew he was right for her. Frank knew he was right for her. Now he just had to convince Grace they were meant to be.

Four hours later, he glanced at his watch and blew out a breath. Tired, running on fumes and dreams, it was time to go after what he wanted. Frank Winters never walked away from a challenge and he sure as hell didn’t walk away from something he knew could be the best thing he ever had. Frank grabbed his trumpet, asked the hotel to give him a ride to her house, where she should be by now.

As the limo pulled up to the curb at Grace’s home, Frank noticed the crowd of elderly women gathered across the street. At least a baker’s dozen. They could prove to be just what he needed to draw her out. If he had to, he’d make a scene.

Several of the women had donned forties style dresses and one woman wore an old Women’s Army Corp uniform. Frank couldn’t help but grin. Grace had mentioned the old lady across the street liked to gossip. He was about to give them enough material to talk about for months. As he got out, they started clapping. Frank turned around, waved, flipped his cap up on his head and headed up the walk.

Show time.

The blinds cracked open and snapped shut.

“I know you’re in there, Grace. Come out and talk.”

She didn’t answer.

Well, there was more than one way to skin a cat. Frank lifted the trumpet to his lips and began to play Schubert’s Trumpet Serenade, the sexiest and most romantic piece of music he could think of. If she wouldn’t come out, he’d stand on her doorstep and play until she did.

The blinds cracked again.


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