A Different Kind of Desert Snow, by KC Kendricks

"January is here, with eyes that keenly glow, a frost-mailed warrior striding a shadowy steed of snow." - Edgar Fawcett

I’m sitting at my desk, laughing at myself for waxing poetic over the misty view out my window. I thought you’d like to know the author at this moment as she realizes the fleeting beauty of today should be embraced, not squandered with longing for what won’t come until tomorrow.

It’s been a long, dreary January here in scenic western Maryland. I could complain about the lack of sunshine and the cold temperatures, but I’d rather celebrate Nature’s sleep.

While the world outside dreams of spring and prepares to repaint itself in glorious greens, I dream inside. Old stories are complete, or nearly so, and new ideas push their way into my consciousness. I take time to clean out old files and set up new. I look back at what I accomplished, and forward to what remains to be done. Like spring, I bide my time for the proper moments. 

I’ve been writing for a full ten years and it’s been a decade to celebrate. I get just as excited about a new release now as I did with my first. Of course, it doesn’t scare me the way it used to which is a good thing. I know what to expect, what needs done, and what traps to avoid so I can quickly get back to the next story. It’s a familiar cycle, one I never get bored with.

Desert Snow is my most recent release. If you follow along at my personal blog, you already know it has nothing to do with winter or the white stuff that falls from the sky. The setting for the story is the Palm Springs White Party. The story had a different working title but then I wrote a line that changed my mind. Palm Springs is a desert town so that’s pretty self-explanatory. But when my character thought of all the guys dressed in white, each unique and beautiful like snowflakes, I knew it was the right title: Desert Snow.

Contemporary gay romance
by KC Kendricks

Laird Bennett accepts a friend’s invitation for a vacation with his eyes wide open. His buddy is pimping for him - in a sneaky sort of way. Why else set up his business meeting in Palm Springs the week of the annual White Party and ask Laird to go along? Laird goes with every intention of enjoying the eye candy, the weather, and behaving himself. Those plans change his first night out while waiting to cross the street and a younger man in white leather greets him.

Haydn Rinehart is at a crossroads. His pilgrimage to the White Party is to keep a promise before moving into the next phase of his life. Haydn strikes up a conversation with an attractive party-goer while waiting for a traffic light to change and invites him for a drink. When he discovers Laird is one of his favorite authors, Haydn volunteers to assist in some hands-on research in his hotel room.

After all, they are at the White Party and some fun is in order.

“Haydn is a good German name for a man of German descent.”

I looked at the Celtic emblem on his neck cord. It was possible he wore it not as a symbol of his heritage, but because he simply liked the design.

“Actually, Haydn could also be of Welsh origin.” I didn’t add it meant “fire” in the Welsh and suited him to a tee. One should never appear over educated to a new acquaintance.

“So are you into genealogy and stuff?” His whiskey-brown eyes held genuine interest. Darn, he had pretty eyes, so clear with a dark outer ring around the iris.

“When I was a lad, back in the hills of West Virginia, I stumbled upon an old graveyard in the woods. I restored it to get my Eagle Scout award.”

“No kidding? For real, man?”

“Yep. It led to my writing career.”

I managed to refrain from grinning at him as he blinked at me, his lips slightly parted. He jerked and gulped down a few swallows of his beer, which had unfortunate consequences. He choked. I thumped his back as he coughed.

“Sorry.” He wheezed a few times in my general direction. “I’m such an ass.”

I gave him one last pat between the shoulder blades and reached for my drink. I wanted to touch him far too badly to allow it to continue. I wasn’t here to get laid.

“You’re going to have to explain that statement. Why does choking on your beer make you an ass?”

He cleared his throat and risked a sip from the bottle. “I’ve never met a writer before. Are you here to make notes for in a book or something?

I sighed. “Haydn, the whole world is fodder for an author. Everything we see, hear and learn ends up on the page sooner or later.” I smiled at him. “I write true crime novels as a profession, and erotic gay romance as a hobby.”

Those lovely brown orbs fixed me with a ruttish stare. “Then may I volunteer my services as a research assistant for your hobby?”

KC Kendricks

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