Busted Play

What is a Busted Play?

A term for an offensive play that fails immediately after the snap. Typically, a busted play is called when a particular player misunderstands the play call and attempts to run a different play. Busted plays are often catastrophic for the offense because the quarterback is left to adlib without the proper protection or a way to get the ball to another player. Busted plays can often result in a turnover due to the miscommunication between offensive players.

She’s my physical therapist, a nice girl from Iowa, and I’ll be damned if I can handle her sweet touches…

It’s none of my business that her ex locked her out and took everything she owned. What am I supposed to do? After my unfortunate accident, social media is all over me, just waiting for my next mistake. I even offered her cold, hard cash and she refused, suggesting I’m trying to buy her sexual favors.

Now she’s got this cockamamie idea that she could get back on her feet with a wedding. Pretending to be married might be just the thing to sweeten my side of a million-dollar deal so I offer my services. What I don’t figure on is those sweet baby-blues. The minute they focus on me, I’m toast.

 

Warning. This novella contains graphic language, steamy, sexual scenes, and respectfully deals with the delicate topic of a woman recovering from childhood abuse.

 

 

 

 

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Spring Giveaway

There’s so much buzz going on, I can barely keep up!

I hadn’t seen Jenna Jones since I was a lifeguard and she at that awkward age between a kid and a woman. I should’ve known I was in trouble when my suspect glared at me with those big green eyes. And later? Holy hell, I wasn’t prepared for that kind of sweet seduction. Now I’m totally screwed, undone by a stunning genius and her dangerous code.

Time is running out for Detective O’Brien. Is there really some evil nemesis from Jenna’s past behind these acts of terrorism or is she completely delusional?

HEA guaranteed along with a healthy dose of adult content.

 

DC FB7 (1)

I want it

…And check out this friggin’ amazing giveaway:

Spring flowers

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Spring Promos and Dangerous Code

There’s so much buzz going on, I can barely keep up!

First off, Dangerous Code is selling like crazy, so thank you!

I want it

FB & TW DC

HERE’S AN AWESOME SET OF BOOKS FOR .99!

Show me the muscle

 

…And check out this friggin; amazing giveaway:

Spring flowers

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Dangerous Code… LOL… How to Write a Blurb

LOL! One of my dearest writer friends set me straight yesterday. I was feeling a bit down. I know this latest book is one of my best and the cover is awesome so what was I doing wrong?

She suggested I emphasize the sex. The story is secondary.

Sex sells.

Okay then. Here is my latest attempt at ‘How to write a blurb’

Let me know what you think.

“Great read! I really enjoyed this suspenseful, erotic romance by Stella! I’ve read all her other books and loved each one. Can’t wait to read more contemporary romance by this author. Well done!”

Is it possible that little Meggie’s turned terrorist? I haven’t seen her since I was a lifeguard and she at that awkward age between kid and woman. Now she’s drop dead gorgeous and my suspect. I knew I was in trouble when she glared at me with those big green eyes. And when we kissed? Holy shit, I wasn’t prepared for the hottest sex of my life. Now she’s on the run and it’s my job to find her and keep her safe or maybe even arrest her. Either way I’m screwed because I’ve fallen hard and that just can’t happen, not with the city under attack.

***

I want it

DANGEROUSCODEa

 

I’d tried to be gentle. Hadn’t I watched her every sweet expression, made her explode and scream out my name? More than once? But then again, there was that one moment, right as I entered, where her body had stiffened.

“Do you want me to go?” I hold my breath, awkwardly leaning against the door frame while she puts our leftovers in the microwave as if we just hadn’t had mind-blowing sex.

“No.” She says it so quietly I can barely make it out.

My gut wrenches. Somehow, I’d made her feel bad.

Escaping my self-made exile, I walk across the room, wrap her into my arms and whisper in her ear, “Did I hurt you?”

She twists around in a flash. “No, no. I just don’t want you to think… Oh, I don’t know what to say. I’ve never ever done something like this before.”

She’s telling the truth and Neanderthal-man is thrilled but there’s a twisting in my gut that I haven’t felt for years. Meggie is obviously one of those good girls. The kind that save themselves for marriage. So why did she come on so strong?

And more importantly, why did I respond?

 

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What’s Inside a Writer’s Brain.

It’s 2017 and I am determined to share more of who I am and what it’s like to be me.

I’m a writer stuck in the body of a software architect. I read somewhere I should always introduce myself as a writer.

Let’s see how that pans out.
“Hi, I’m Stella Marie Alden, Best Selling Romance Author”

Or

“Hi, I’m Susan Hammond, I work for Nuance. The company that makes Siri? Those phone programs that talk to you? Press one for one. Two for three? Or you can press operator, but no one competent will help you so best to stay with the automated system.”
I shouldn’t joke, that’s what pays my bills.

But sometimes, when I am in my day job, it doesn’t feel real. What feels real are the stories in my head. And there’s always stories. Even though I choose just one to focus on, there’re many clamoring in my brain.

People always ask me, where do your stories come from?

I say, how the hell do you guys shut them down?

I mean, how can you just watch people ahead of you in the grocery store, and NOT make up their life’s story? The handsome young man with potato chips, frozen meals, and razor blades. No ring on his finger, a cute dimple, nice leather jacket. Was he married? Did he leave a relationship?

What about the woman who’s dressed in high heels, designer jeans, diamonds? And buys Suave shampoo, hamburgers, and pita bread. Who’s she trying to impress?
It goes on and on. Because once I have the character, there’s no turning back. They live in my head, fermenting, waiting for me to say, “What should I write next?”

Me! Me! Me! They clamor.

SHUSH!

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