Welcome to the third installment of “You’ll Never Believe…”
For those that don’t know what these new featurettes will be about, here is the scoop! “You’ll Never Believe…” will feature the weirdest questions or encounters that authors have been asked/had. Might be about their books or random things, like meetings in a bathroom where someone asked what brand of toilet paper they normally use. Fun stuff and inside scoops that an author would not normally share.
*squeeeee* I love secrets!!!
Ready for Kate?
You’ll Never Believe… with Kate Canterbary
Recently, I was getting my hair cut and got to chatting with the stylist. When I mentioned that I write novels—specifically, smutty novels about sexy architects—the stylist went bananas. She put the scissors down, pulled up a chair, and made it clear we’d worry about whether my layers were symmetrical later.
She immediately rattled off a lengthy list of her favorite authors, and wanted to share her thoughts on her recent readings. This ranged from loving a character but hating his tendency to wear sleeveless shirts, to wishing some of her favorites were longer because she adored them that much.
But that wasn’t even the best part. Then she wanted to know how I wrote the, ahem, spicy portions.
She said, “So you must have a lot of sex. Like, every day, huh? And all that kinky shit, right?”
And I said the first thing that came to mind. “Well…I am happily married.”
I edged closer to the speakers to drown out my thoughts, dancing with my companion for the evening: a limey gimlet.
The songs started blurring together and my muscles loosened. The combined effects of vodka and dancing made everything a little more mellow, and I didn’t protest the hands that landed on my hips.
“Your friends have terrible taste in bars,” a voice—Patrick’s voice—rasped against my ear, and I actually moaned in delight.
I didn’t dare look over my shoulder. I wanted to know why he was here, how he found me, and what he wanted, but those questions were going to wait. I needed to enjoy the way we fit together first. He enveloped me, his body curling around mine, wrapping me in sinewy muscle. Long fingers mapped my pelvis, pressing and pulling with the rhythm.
“And you were wandering around Lansdowne Street on a Thursday night, looking for overpriced drinks?”
“Something like that,” he murmured. “Those texts on your screen are hard to miss sometimes. And then you looked up the reviews for this place when we were stuck in traffic. I…I couldn’t stay away. I should, but…here I am.”
“I never told you to stay away.”
“You shouldn’t have to, Andy.”
Patrick’s lips brushed across the nape of my neck, and I hoped the music swallowed my guttural sigh. Or maybe I wanted him to hear, to know what he did to me. His fingers pried the glass from my hand and he studied the melting ice.
“My therapist,” I murmured, glancing over my shoulder for the first time. I smiled at his wrinkled brow. “Vodka. She keeps me in line. Usually.”
Patrick set the glass on a passing waiter’s tray. With a flick of his wrist, he spun me around and reclaimed his place on my hips.
“Running a couple miles along the Charles usually does it for me,” he said, ducking to my ear. “But it doesn’t seem like anything’s working for us right now.”
I shook my head. My eyes dropped to his lips and the pale freckles there. Where else would I find freckles? “There’s always tequila.”
“No,” he whispered, threading his hands through my hair. “There’s a much better solution.”
Stretching up on my toes, I captured Patrick’s lips as a growl rattled in his throat. It wasn’t like other first kisses. There was no hesitation, no patient exploration. This was the deep end. He knew what he was doing, and it was clear he intended to teach me something.
The Space Between by Kate Canterbury
Some lines are meant to be crossed.
That fucking hair.
It was everywhere, always, and I wanted to tangle my fingers in those dark curls and pull.
And that would be fine if she wasn’t my apprentice.
Andy Asani was nothing like I expected. She was exotic and scary-brilliant, and the slightest murmur from those lips sent hot, hungry lust swirling through my veins. Outside my siblings, she was the only person I could name who shared my obsession with preserving Boston’s crumbling buildings.
My wants were few: good eats, tall boots, hot yoga, interesting work. One incredibly hot architect with the most expressive hazel eyes I ever encountered and entirely too much talent in and out of the bedroom wasn’t part of the original plan. Apparently he was part of the package.
Wine was my rabbi and vodka was my therapist, and I needed plenty of both to survive my apprenticeship. Especially with Patrick Walsh leaving love notes in the form of bite marks all over my body.
About Kate Canterbary
Kate Canterbary doesn’t have it all figured out, but this is what she knows for sure: spicy-ass salsa and tequila solve most problems, living on the ocean–Pacific or Atlantic–is the closest place to perfection, and writing smart, smutty stories is a better than any amount of chocolate. She started out reporting for an indie arts and entertainment newspaper back when people still read newspapers, and she has been writing and surreptitiously interviewing people—be careful sitting down next to her on an airplane—ever since. Kate lives on the water in New England with Mr. Canterbary and the Little Baby Canterbary, and when she isn’t writing sexy architects, she’s scheduling her days around the region’s best food trucks.