Saturday, July 11, 2015

WHEN SPARKS FLY: THROWN A CURVE BY KATE McMURRAY


In celebration of the launch of our "When Sparks Fly" Contest,
we have invited some of our members to share with us excerpts or articles about making those Sparks Fly.  Happy Reading.♥



In the Rainbow League series, Mason and Patrick fumble toward happiness in THROWN A CURVE  (book 2) but they first meet in THE WINDUP (book 1). Here the sparks fly when they first meet:



Mason turned back toward the bar and signaled Tom that he wanted another. As Tom slid a pint glass in front of Mason, the guy flounced over and leaned on the bar.
“Well, hello,” he said to Mason. “Nice hit you got in the seventh. Mason, right?”
“Uh-huh.” Mason was dumbstruck. This much sexual energy was probably bad for his health.
“I’m Patrick,” said the guy. “You’re the one who used to be a Yankee, right?”
“Yes.” Wow, it was hard to make words suddenly.
Patrick bobbed up and down, still dancing to the music from the jukebox. “You’re not, like, some retired straight guy who joined the league just for the love of the game or whatever, right? ’Cause I know Will lets people like that join. A sports league for gay athletes can’t possibly be exclusionary, right?” Patrick rolled his eyes.
“Nope. I’m gay. I got a lot of ink when I came out. Do you not remember?”
Patrick shrugged. “Like I pay attention to the news. If it wasn’t in People, I don’t know it happened.”
“I was on the cover of People.”
“Oh.” Patrick squinted. “I suppose I do remember there being a little tizzy a few years ago. Some major leaguer who came out of the closet after he retired, yeah?”
Mason pointed at himself.
“Well, look at you, darling. You’re practically a celebrity!” Patrick playfully poked at Mason’s arm. “No wonder your team beat ours today.”
Mason debated making a move. This guy talked a lot, but he was so fucking hot that it kind of didn’t matter. Besides, Mason didn’t want a romantic dinner or a long date, just a quick fuck somewhere nearby.
Patrick ordered a fruity cocktail, something that came in a martini glass and was garnished with a maraschino cherry. He took a careful sip. “You sitting here alone, big guy?” he asked.
“Yeah, just… taking in the scenery.” He gave Patrick what he hoped was a meaningful look.
Patrick laughed. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
Mason gave Patrick a closer look. He seemed to be wearing eyeliner, and his sneakers had hot pink laces in them.
“No offense, but how does a guy like you end up playing baseball?” Mason asked.
A frown flashed across Patrick’s face, but he recovered quickly. “Well, before I became all this”—he gestured toward himself—“I was a little boy in the suburbs. I played Little League ball until I was fourteen or so. That was when I figured out that I wanted to play with the boys in different ways. I moved to the city and was looking to meet people, and this friend of my mother’s mentioned this league, and I told some coworkers who thought it sounded like a lark, like, how hi-lar-ious would it be if Patrick the Sparkle Pixie did something so butch as play baseball. I was all, ‘Challenge accepted.’ Then I grew to really love playing again. Guess I showed them.” Patrick winked.
“Your coworkers? What do you do?”
Patrick ran a hand through the messy rooster-comb hair on top of his head. “I’m a hairdresser, darling. And you?” 
“I write feature stories for a sports website.”
“How literary of you.” Patrick grinned. “Look at this, we’re getting to know each other. And here I thought all your leering at me was just to get me into bed.”
“Who says it wasn’t?”♥


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:   RWA/NYC Vice President Kate McMurray is an award-winning author of gay romance and an unabashed romance fan. When she’s not writing, she works as a nonfiction editor, dabbles in various crafts, and is maybe a tiny bit obsessed with baseball. She has served as President of Rainbow Romance Writers, the LGBT romance chapter of Romance Writers of America. She lives in Brooklyn, NY. Visit her at www.katemcmurray.com.


To enter the When Sparks Fly Contest, click here 
or visit www.rwanyc.com.




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