Meet Whitley Grey!
- Please tell us about your latest release.
At Christmas, fame-weary ex-fireman and model Joe shares his cabin with half-frozen actor and telegram singer Errol during a blizzard. Heat turns to fireworks as Errol wants the very thing Joe wants to escape.
- There are so many kinds of erotic romance–suspense, contemporary, historical and more. What type do you like to write and why?
Contemporary and suspense. I like characters in the here and now. I find I relate to them better. In M/M, I like to explore characters who are out. In historical, these characters are always closeted. I do love suspense, and have written contemporary romantic suspense.
- How long have you been writing romance? Have you written other genres in the past? What drew you to erotic romance?
I started about five years ago with romance. I read a great book and discovered it was classified as “romance.” That led to devouring romance, and then I discovered M/M romance and knew I was home.
Prior to that I did a lot of technical writing. Years and years of it.
- What is your favorite thing about the heroes from your latest book? Is there anything about them that drives you absolutely crazy?
Joe is in pain, still in love with a ghost, and finally gets a chance to heal. Errol has the courage of his convictions, and has stuck with a difficult career (and life) path.
Please also send me: a) a blurb for your new book
Two years ago, Joe Blake lost his secret lover, firefighter Bryce Marshall. Grieving, Joe left his job as a fireman and paramedic to become the spokesmodel for undergarment company Escalade. They lured him into the limelight and drove him deeper into the closet. Modeling doesn’t provide fulfillment; Joe wants privacy and to feel useful again. A holiday at his mountain cabin outside Denver is the perfect escape. The last thing he anticipated, or wanted, was sharing his retreat with another man.
Last Christmas, actor Errol Lockhart discovered boyfriend Carson had stolen a play. Carson accused Errol and then blackballed him in the theater community. Some Christmas that was. Now Errol has to take whatever work he can to survive. Delivering a singing telegram during a blizzard isn’t wise, but it pays double and rent is overdue. He’s got dreams, not of a white Christmas, but of getting a shot at Hollywood. He’s determined to make it, if he survives this storm.
As Joe and Errol ride out the blizzard, more than marshmallows get toasty in front of the fire. When Errol discovers Joe’s identity, he’s sure he’s found his way in, his big break. But Joe won’t sacrifice Errol to the Hollywood sharks. Unless they can forge a compromise, they’re going to wake from their midwinter night’s dream to lumps of coal in their stockings.
b) an excerpt of no more than 750 words
Heat surrounded Errol’s body. The surface beneath him was soft, and he couldn’t perceive any light through his eyelids. His hands and feet hurt. He was exhausted and achy. Couldn’t open his eyes. A little more rest…
Something ticked out a muted rhythm, and every click made his head throb. During his nap someone had taken a ball-peen hammer to his head, and his tongue had become glued to the roof of his mouth. Felt like the hangover from hell.
Water. Water would be good. A hint of wood smoke filled Errol’s nose, mixed with a spicier smell—evergreen and clove, like Christmas. He must be dreaming.
The featherweight web of sleep persisted, and he rubbed at his eyes and opened them a crack. Wait a minute. Where was he?
Well, first of all, warm and cozy in an enormous bed. Not his; not by a long shot. The thing was heaped with sleeping bags and quilts, making the covers weighty. He squinted and peeked under the covers. Naked. The ache behind his eyes intensified as he absorbed his lack of clothing. Yikes.
A dozen feet away, there was a fireplace made of river rock, flanked by bookcases. Banked embers glowed in the hearth, outlining walls made of logs in faint rosy light. A clock ticked on the mantel, the source of the tapping irritating his ears. A sweep of muted plaid framed the dark windows, and snow hissed against the panes, seeking entry. Okay, naked, in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar place. What the—
Something rustled next to him, and he rolled over. A tuft of dark curls stuck up from the covers. Nothing else of his bedmate showed. Holy shit, make that naked next to an unfamiliar body.
Oh, no. No, no, no. He couldn’t remember doing the sing-o-gram, but maybe he’d had a holiday drink and ended up sleeping with someone at the client’s house? Judging by the way his head felt, he had the mother of all hangovers, and if alcohol had been involved, who knew? Man, he’d be in such deep shit. Pour Vous had a strict no-sex-with-the-clients policy. If he’d broken the rules, Smitty would roast his chestnuts over an open fire and cut him loose. Without a job, he’d be out on the street in a week. He shivered.
Smitty didn’t have to know.
With a deep sigh, the bedmate rolled over, one arm pushing the covers down to the waist. Errol’s eyes widened. Whoops. Naked, muscular, and male. Dark curly hair, a shadow of beard covering his jaw, and a face like a model. Errol had never really understood the meaning of chiseled features before now, but this met the definition. Yowza.
Wait a minute. Smitty had said the telegram recipient was a blond woman. This was very definitely not her. So who the hell was this guy? Had Errol slept with him? Like wild-monkey-sex slept with him?
This had to be some crazy dream. Must be that convenience-store burrito he’d eaten for lunch. Guys like Errol didn’t wake up with guys like this. Errol pinched himself and blinked. The guy was still there.
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