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Before I went to bed this morning, I looked around my apartment, appreciated the overall changes/tidiness in my apartment and realized I was living in my very own 'romantic getaway, bed-and-breakfast'. The fireplace is situated just so that I can relax on the sofa (futon) in the living room and watch the 'fire'. And then I have what my sister calls a 'princess bedroom', complete with rich gold and red shades in the comforter and matching drapes. Potpourri vases, lit with decorative, clear string lights, enhance the warmth and inviting tones in the living room/bedroom/bathroom and kitchen. 

Not only that, I have only to pull on a pair of old sneakers and I'm in the lush backyard surrounded by trees, flowers and a garden. The deck comes with a barbecue, chairs and the most relaxing view (short of a by-the-seaside experience) anyone could appreciate.

If I wanted to go on a writer's retreat to a place like this one, I'd most likely pay around $500 a weekend. Wow, if that doesn't put things into perspective nothing else will. I'm one blessed girl! 

So last night, I worked on chapter eight of Bouquets and Motorcycles. I like how it went, and I should be able to finish the last chapter tonight. That's the easy part; it's the editing that's a kicker. 

Goal for now: get ready for the day.

Excerpt from Orchids for Roses

When the weather permitted, Ysonde drove her motorcycle, when it didn't, she cross country skied. After all her years of merely existing here, her destination was always the same: the small chapel miles away where she prayed for personal peace and liberation.

A raven shade of ponytail swung loose, pendulum style, across her black leather jacket when she dismounted and removed her helmet. She took a deep, steadying breath.

In the chapel, it didn’t matter what was in her past, or her parentage. She was simply --

"Ysonde!"

A sharp male voice pierced her reflective pause. She looked up at what seemed an incredibly long way until she gazed into the liquor-reddened eyes of the man she knew only as Paris.

"Have you finished arranging the last of the bouquets?" he asked in perfect French.

"Almost," she said, undisturbed by the harsh disapproval apparent in the solid line of his graying eyebrows. "But you needn’t worry about my work being completed on time."

Time enough for the police to receive the message she’d secretly mailed detailing how to find her cell group, and where to find their cache of weapons.

If Paris knew the hidden meaning behind her statement, he’d be delirious with anger. And she’d be dead.

Get a copy at:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/133855