Patty H. Scott's Blog

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About the Book:

Town(shipped) is a bride-on-the-run, amnesia sweet romcom. Aiden’s lived in the small town of Bordeaux (pronounced Bored Ox) Ohio his whole life. Townspeople tease him that it isn’t like a woman is going to land on his doorstep and fall in love with him. And that seemed to be the case until Mallory came crashing into his life. Town(shipped) is a closed-door, sweet romcom with a happily-ever-after. It is book three in the Getting Shipped! series, but can be read as a standalone. 

Chapter One

Mallory

Today would have been the day.

I would have been sitting with curlers in my copper hair, while a prestigious, high-profile makeup artist applied finishing touches to my face. Gabriela would have been standing nearby, making me laugh in hopes that I’d bypass the freight train of nerves running through me.

The bridal suite would have been a flurry of activity with bridesmaids primping, dressing, and chattering about their dresses, hair, and the eligible groomsmen. I would have donned my inordinately expensive Vera Wang wedding dress—the one I sold back to the boutique for half the original price two weeks ago.

And once I was dressed and had walked down the stairs to take my father’s waiting arm, Buck would have stood at the end of the aisle, with his expectant eyes and calm demeanor. Buck, the man whose heart I broke only sixteen days ago when I called off our engagement. Buck, the man whose mother probably wanted to reinstate the Salem witch trials after she heard how I had dismantled her dreams by calling off my wedding to her one and only son.

“It’s just not done in our circles. You can’t simply cancel an event of this magnitude,” she had said before she skewered me with a string of expletives that could make a sailor blush—at  least every sailor in our yacht club.

Over the past year, my wedding had turned into a society event-slash-craft project that would make Martha Stewart salivate.

For almost that whole year I had avoided the small voice in my head saying, This is wrong, as I got dragged into marriage-prep mayhem. And that tiny inner voice of hesitation got swept along like a dust bunny on a hardwood floor when a wind comes through. Only I was a dust bunny being draped in beaded gowns, addressing three hundred embossed invites and deciding whether rose, crepe, or flamingo was a better shade of pink for the napkins and chair bows.

The closer the wedding had gotten, the more that inner voice went from a slight nudge to something more like a tackle from a two-hundred-fifty-pound linebacker.

I refused to see the truth, and for almost a year I didn’t say a thing—until I did.

So, instead of today being my wedding day, I’m currently sitting in the underground parking garage of the Niagara Falls Hilton, just having downed my last Red Vine and slurped the last sip of my forty-ounce gas station convenience store diet soda.

It obviously had been Buck’s idea for our honeymoon to consist of three weeks touring historic and notable landmarks of the Midwest. My suggestion of Hawaii seemed cliché to him. Everyone goes to Hawaii, Mal. Why don’t we do something more edifying and less crowded?

Bracing my hands on the steering wheel, I let out a sigh that feels like the first real breath I’ve taken in over two weeks. Then I pop open the trunk of the car I borrowed from Gabriela’s brother, Diego. I wasn’t about to take my new Accord on this two-thousand-five-hundred-mile trip, so Gabriela talked me into borrowing her brother’s car.

Diego’s on a scholarship to a four-year program at Oxford studying dead poets or dead languages or maybe it’s the dead language of dead poets. I remember it being a subject fully lacking in real-life application. While Diego’s away, his car has been sitting idle in his parents’ driveway. He was happy to have me drive it.

The sound of the liftgate popping echoes against the concrete pillars of the underground parking structure. I step out, hoist my suitcase and shut the trunk. Pulling my coat snug around myself, I take the elevators up to the sleek lobby with its marble-look flooring, glass fixtures, and high ceilings. One expansive hallway out of the reception area attaches the hotel to the adjoining casino. The other leads to the tower of rooms overlooking the falls.

I approach the welcome desk and mention my reservation was made for the Crowninshield party.

In a nasally but animated voice more suited to a circus ringmaster than a four-star-hotel clerk, the young man behind the counter says, “Welcome to the Hilton, Mrs. Crowninshield. And where is your dashing groom?”

Dashing groom? Seriously?

“I’m checking in alone. And it’s not Mrs. Crowninshield. It’s Miss O’Brien for the Crowninshield reservation.”

The hotel clerk, whose name tag reads Ryne, scrunches up his face, searches the computer monitor in front of him and says, “Ah, yes. I see that here. So, you’re taking your honeymoon without your husband?”

His voice echoes across the tile and pings against all the glossy surfaces, somehow gaining volume with each ricochet. Other hotel guests look our way.

“Yes,” I answer in my indoor voice.

Okay. I grew up in Boston. We’re not known for being demure as a rule, but I’m from the circle of families considered old money. We trace our roots to the Mayflower. Which, somehow, means prestige. Though, I don’t know how descending from people who traveled over on a cramped ship and lived on corn and fish while dwelling in a drafty log cabin translates into a status symbol.

But, by my generation, our family name is synonymous with debutante balls, etiquette lessons, and a sense of propriety a mile long. I’m able to carry myself with decorum, even though I’ve never quite fit in with the whole high-society scene—at all. I’m well-versed in mustering up an indoor voice that says, Let’s all be more self-contained, why don’t we?

But Bellboy McMegaphone isn’t catching my drift at all. In an even louder volume, with an even more nasally tone to it, he presses on. “Do you still intend to stay in one of our king suites? Are you aware our suites can accommodate up to five people?”

“I am keeping our reservation as it was originally arranged,” I answer in a voice that would make a librarian beam with subdued pride.

We’re like dueling volumes, my soft answer to every one of Ryne’s crescendos. And, as you can tell, I’m losing the duel with each exchange.

“Alone?” Ryne blurts with confusion, but also maintaining his previous intensity. “On a honeymoon? Alone?”

He scrunches his face as he asks, and I wonder if he’s new to hospitality or merely unable to keep his thoughts from showing on his face like a jumbotron of judgment.

“I am staying in a honeymoon suite alone,” I confirm, feeling my Diet Coke make its presence known. Why did I get an extra large before sitting through customs? Now I’m fidgeting like a toddler learning to potty train.

I adjust my posture so I’m facing the desk head-on, hoping to avoid the stares of an increasing number of hotel patrons. We’re drawing a crowd.

“Do you still want the champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries? They are complimentary.”

I pause to let the guilt wash over me. Yes. I called off the wedding. But I am covering all the costs of this trip as well as the cancellation fees of any vendors.

I straighten myself and say, “Yes. I want all aspects of the package we booked originally. Thank you.” Though, the thought of a bubbly beverage right now only increases my need to rush check-in and get to my room. Maybe there’s a lobby restroom?

My comprehensive answer apparently isn’t good enough for Ryne. He proceeds to iterate every option we booked and waits for my response to each one. I try to picture arid deserts and take short breaths while I avoid making any sudden movements. Instead, my eyes land on the words Niagara Falls. Images of rushing water do not help my situation. I shift again, trying to be discreet.

“Couples massage at our luxury spa on the third floor?” Ryne asks with a raised brow.

Is he enjoying this inquisition?

“That can be for one,” I say.

“Obviously,” he concurs with a light snicker. “Unless you want both masseuses to work on you at the same time. Wouldn’t that be an experience!”

“I’ll pass,” I say with the gracious smile of a Southern Belle even though I’m a Yankee through and through.

Buck didn’t want the massages in the first place. He said the idea of strangers rubbing his bare flesh creeped him out.

I chuckle to myself. Buck. A part of me wishes he were here. His steadiness gave me a mooring I naturally lack. Maybe a platonic marriage is the best some people can hope for. Maybe it was all I should have hoped for. Gabriela always accused me of being overly romantic despite my independent spirit.

I accidentally take a glance behind me at the line of other guests. Most of them are starting to not-so-conspicuously eavesdrop on the conversation between me and the boisterous desk clerk. A few aren’t even hiding the fact that I’m their main source of entertainment.

“So, honeymoon suite for one, champagne for one, strawberries for one, massage for one, breakfast in bed for one.” And a restroom for one. Please. Soon.

The song about one being the loneliest number starts to ring through my head.

“You got it,” I say.

“Well, I hope you enjoy your stay at the Hilton. You have a stunning view of the falls from your suite, Miss O’Brien. Let us know how we can serve you while you are here.”

My room key and a paper bag to put over my head would be great right about now.

Ryne hands me the card to my room on the thirty-fifth floor and I turn to smile at my now audience of people waiting in the line of shame behind me.

I give them my best imitation of a parade wave followed by a Miss America smile. Then I quickly make my way through the lobby, up the elevators and to my room.

Buck and I had planned a winter hike behind the falls and some other sightseeing for tomorrow before leaving for the rest of our trip. I’m content planning to unwind in the comfort of a heated room while enjoying the falls from a remote and dry aerial view.

Opening the door, I park my suitcase, set my purse on the desk, and barely take in the luxurious room. The king bed sits at the center of one wall, facing an opposing wall with a built-in fireplace. Straight past the bed, on the far side of the room, floor-to-ceiling windows look out over a full view of both falls. Around the corner from the room’s foyer is a full bathroom (thanks be to all things porcelain!). I pass the tub that could fit all five people—if the room were fully occupied.

After using the restroom, I fish out my phone. Pulling up Gabriela’s number, I walk toward the windows, collapse into one of the overstuffed chairs, and call my best friend.

“Hey, chiquita! How’s the road trip?” Gabriela asks as soon as she answers her phone.

“Beautiful. Lonely. Introspective. And filled with more caffeine and Red Vines than I’ve had in years.”

“That’s how it should be.”

I spin a little in the chair. It swivels with me.

“I’m all checked in at the Hilton. The view is beyond stunning. Canada’s so crisp and clean. It’s like they must have a whole colony of nocturnal elves who come out and spiff up the landscape and buildings at night. And the falls are breathtaking. I’m a few blocks away, but high enough up in the tower to see the mist rising from the spray down below.”

“Take pictures! I want to see it all.”

“I will.”

“How are you holding up?” Gabriela asks, her tone turning soft and serious.

“It’s surreal being here today—the day I almost exchanged lifelong vows with Buck. I could be a wife today. Instead, I’m just me. A twenty-eight-year-old single redhead with no idea what’s next.”

I’m quiet and Gabriela waits for me to speak. As outspoken as she can be, she’s the best at waiting for me to say whatever’s on my heart.

“I never wanted to hurt Buck. I keep questioning myself. You said it yourself. Buck was kind, steady, and faithful. And I liked him. We got along.”

“Do you hear yourself, mija? You got along? Since when is that your standard for marriage? You don’t go into a life-long commitment based on sympathy or simply because you get along. I get along with the guy who works at the carniceria. He’s a pot-bellied old man and he smells like beef tongue and pickles. He’s not my Mister Right. Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

I chuckle. “You’re right.”

“Nothing new there,” Gabriela teases me.

“Maybe this road trip was a bad idea, though. I’ve got too much time on my hands. Too much silence.”

I stare off at the waterfalls, powerful and timeless. People travel from all over the world to see them every day while the falls flow in a steady predictability with purpose and intensity, unfazed by who’s watching and unmoved by popular expectations, trends, or opinions.

“I’m considering the philosophical meaning of Niagara Falls right now,” I confess.

“That’s pathetic,” Gabriela teases. “Do you want the truth?”

“Are you giving me a choice?”

“Not really.” Gabriela laughs that carefree, beautiful laugh that makes me want to hop in the car and drive back to Boston so I can spend three weeks at her house, eating savory food and talking until late into the night.

“You need this time away,” she says in a careful tone.  “Besides that, knowing Buck’s mom, there will be aftershocks to this cancellation. You may not have heard the end of things with her. It’s probably good to be a couple states away for the coming weeks.”

“Now that you mention it, I probably should join the witness protection program.”

“I hear you. But taking your honeymoon on your own is a good compromise. What you need is a little time on the road to clear your head and let this news sink in for everyone while you’re gone. Give yourself the chance to get your thoughts straight—and grieve. This can be a road trip like Thelma and Louise, minus the shooting and, well, minus Louise. You’re just Thelma.”

I laugh, but then I consider everything Gabriela’s saying.

“I probably do need this time to figure out what’s next. Maybe I should just go off the grid—you know, really take the time to figure myself out.”

“That sounds just right. You have a rare opportunity to consider your future as a blank slate. Decide what you want to write on it—and what you don’t.”

A blank slate.

The idea thrills and scares me in equal measure.

“It’s downhill from here,” Gabriela says. “Or uphill. Which should it be? Downhill sounds so … down. But uphill is harder. Right? So … downhill it is.”

“G?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you talking to me or yourself?”

She giggles. “Just figuring out whether your life is going up or down. Either way, it’s getting better. That’s all I know. You are single. You have a wide-open future. It’s looking up. That’s what’s going down.”

I laugh. “I wish you could have come with me.”

“Me too, sweet hermana, but I need to be here doing all the hashtag adulting while you gallivant around our fine nation. Take lots of pictures and flirt a little with a few strangers.”

“This is me we’re talking about.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Don’t be so you. Release your inner Thelma on this trip. Let yourself go a little. You deserve to break out of the expected routine. Take a breather from living up to everything you think everyone wants from you for once.”

I nod even though she can’t see me. I’m not about to flirt with strangers, but the idea of letting go of expectations feels unusually freeing. I may not fit the mold of the social class I was born into, but I definitely live with the burden of making everyone around me happy. I pursued the career my parents wanted for me, and I almost married a suitable man from a reputable family, just to check off boxes and satisfy expectations.

Gabriela and I talk a little longer, and then I yawn. The hours of driving, and maybe the emotions of this day, seem to be catching up with me.

“I’d better let you go,” I say.

“Off the grid,” she says. “We’ll talk when you’re back here. And remember, Buck’s not your person.”

“You’re my person,” I tell her.

It’s something we’ve said to one another for years.

“I am. And you’re mine. One day I expect I’ll have to share you with a man. It just wasn’t meant to be Buck.”

If you enjoyed this first chapter of Town(shipped), you can read the rest of the story in ebook or paperback on Amazon. Town(shipped) is available to purchase after June 6th, 2022 and is offered free to read to Kindle Unlimited subscribers. 

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The post Town(shipped): A bride-on-the-run, amnesia sweet romcom [First Chapter] appeared first on Sweet Romance Reads.

About the book:

Friend(shipped) is a small-town, friends-to-lovers romcom set in the fictional town of Bordeaux (pronounced bored ox).

Lexi and Trevor grew up next door to one another and are still best friends. One hitch. Lexi has a crush on Trevor. Well, good thing. Trevor has a crush on Lexi too.

But, they each don’t know how the other one feels. Neither of them wants to cross the line of friendship. The few times they tried that ended in disaster.

Lexi allows herself to be persuaded to go on a dating app to try to move on from her crush and find true love. Her dates … well, let’s just say some of them put the strange in stranger. 

This heartwarming romcom has plenty of laughs and a happily ever after you will swoon over. 

Chapter One: Lexi

My best friend Trevor’s cubicle sits right across from mine at the Corn Corners Tribune. A year ago, fresh out of college, both Trevor and I lucked out landing entry-level positions at this old-fashioned newspaper that actually distributes both online and in print. Don’t scoff. Our Sunday news has devoted readers throughout the tri-county region and beyond.

Trevor shot up the ranks before I did. He has the coolest position on the paper if you ask me. He’s our food editor. About six months ago, the food critic on staff left for a job at a bigger publication in Columbus. Now Trevor basically gets paid to eat out and tell people exactly what he thought of the meal and the overall dining experience—kind of like that grumpy cartoon critic in Ratatouille, but without an unnaturally long face, or the bitter attitude.

I wad up a Post-it note and toss it across the aisle in Trevor’s direction. It sails past him and lands on the floor on the other side of his cubicle. I quickly turn my head toward my current writing assignment.

Don “Toots” Green passed peacefully in his sleep on the first of June. Don spent his life farming peas and beans on the outskirts of Urbana at his family farm, Green Acres (not to be confused with the 1960s television show of the same name). According to local residents, everyone for miles around came to get “Toots’” beans …

I pinch my pointer finger and thumb across my forehead begging myself for inspiration. Coming up blank, I scrunch up another Post-it. This time the wadded ball of paper pelts off Trevor’s neck and he slaps at it like an annoying bug. I barely stifle a giggle and he whips his chair around with a look of fierce, but playful retaliation dominating his dark features.

“Lexi,” he warns.

“What?” I say with feigned innocence, stuffing the next balled sticky note under my leg one second too late as his eyes track the movement.

“What are you sitting on?” Trevor asks, stalking across the aisle toward me.

“A chair,” I gulp.

“Stand up.”

“I’m working,” I offer. “And you are interrupting my creative flow.”

“On the obituaries?” Trevor asks, well aware of the assignment I’ve been relegated to once again this week by our oh-so winsome boss, Jeanette.

“It takes concentration to honor a life,” I defend.

“Hand it over,” Trevor says, his hand outstretched toward me.

“What?” I ask? “My commemoration of Toots Green’s life?”

“Your ammo,” he says, his lip turning up at the corner, making him look simultaneously boyish and manly.

“Ammo … ammo … ammo …” I say, stalling, looking around my desk as if I’m trying to retrieve the alleged instrument of his torture.

“The one under your rear,” he says.

“Trevor, I could go to HR, you know. You don’t say rear to a fellow employee at the CC Tribune.”

“Lexi.”

“Okay!” I say, reaching beneath my ample thigh and pulling out a now crushed Post-it, recently flattened from the time it spent sequestered under my skirt.

“Thank you,” he huffs. Then in a mocking tone eerily mirroring Jeanette’s nasally voice he says, “This isn’t workplace appropriate.”

He holds the compressed paper in the air like evidence in a crime scene.

I burst out a laugh as he walks away. He looks over his shoulder and mouths “Payback’s a bear,” as he deposits the sticky note in his grey plastic trashcan.

I do take my job seriously. I’ve dreamed of journalism my whole life. Granted, writing odes to the local farmers wasn’t what I pictured, but I’m in what I call my stepping-stone years. Write enough obituaries and eventually I’ll get to go out on a meaningful assignment, and before long I may even have my own column.

Our boss, Jeanette Rumper, could be the poster child for doesn’t play well with others. She probably should come with her own warning label. Maybe it’s the last name. I’m sure she took a number of hits being teased in elementary school. Not to mention, she was engaged to a lawyer here in Corn Corners named John Rash a few years ago. They called the engagement off last summer. Thank goodness. Her hyphenated name would have been … well, anyway … suffice it to say it looks like she dodged a bullet.

I don’t think I’m imagining the way Jeanette’s face squinches up like she just ate a sour lemon when she looks at me, hands me my next assignment, or reads anything I wrote. She’s a tough critic, and for some reason I’ve never made it onto her list of people she’d like to share a room—or a planet—with.

It’s a short list. 

Anyway, regardless of the cause of her general irritability and obvious dislike of me, it remains a fact that my advancement in the field of journalism currently rests in her tightly balled fists.

I’m just finishing the last of today’s obituaries when Trevor raps twice on the flimsy partition that cordons off my cubicle. “Time for staff meeting,” he says. “Should I play you a dirge?”

“Ha ha,” I say. “I’m planning to blend into the woodwork, be as unobtrusive and go-with-the-flow as possible. I’ll be completely off Jeanette’s radar unless she offers up an article I can’t resist. Then I’ll have to speak up. I can’t keep writing obituaries and page ten articles about city council meetings the rest of my life.”

“You won’t,” Trevor says with his usual tone of encouragement. “You’re far too talented to waste your writing on people who can’t even read what you’ve said about them.”

“The city councilmen can read,” I say. “Or at least I think most of them can.”

“I was talking about your obituaries,” Trevor says with a laugh.

When we walk into the conference room, all the chairs are almost filled. Jeanette stands up front near the whiteboard wearing a crisp suit that looks like it’s been starched to the point of passing a military inspection. Her straight black hair falls in a long bob and cat-eye glasses perch on her narrow nose making her look both intelligent and shrewd. Her lips purse in their usually dissatisfied resting state.

Jeanette’s eyes meet mine and I feel like an ice cube on the sidewalk in the middle of August, I resist the urge to do my wicked witch of the west impersonation.

When her eyes land on Trevor, she lets a smile crack through her otherwise stern face. It almost looks painful. Jeanette loves Trevor. I can’t blame her. He’s one of those people whose sincerity and adaptability make him hard to resist. He’s kind of like the human version of a Labrador retriever—loyal, smart, and generally well-behaved.

Jeanette’s fondness may have been part of the reason Trevor got a shot at being a food critic when the position opened up, while I regularly eulogize local citizens and write about such titillating subjects as the controversy over changing the hours at the county library. 

It’s only a matter of time. I’ll get my break and be able to take assignments with more importance and impact. I simply need to be patient.

After the staff meeting, Trevor and I walk out of the conference room together to collect our things and commute home for the weekend.

The upshot of the meeting was that Trevor got an assignment to try several Italian restaurants over the coming week and a half. As for me, it’s more obituaries and a piece on the Corn Corners Garden Club’s annual plant sale. At least my project will earn me a day out of the office to interview the club president, a sixty-eight-year-old named Louisa Birch.

“Hey, you got the garden piece!” Trevor says with excessive enthusiasm.

I smile and look up at him.

“I kind of wanted the piece on visiting Native American landmarks around Columbus and Chillicothe.”

“I know, Lex,” Trevor says, putting his hand on my back to scoot me out of the way as one of our colleagues passes by. “You’ll rock the garden piece, though. That’s how it works. Write an article that captures the readers’ interest, and pretty soon Jeanette will be begging you to come up with your own ideas or even giving you a column.”

I nod. He may be right. I don’t think he is, but I can’t help but feel more hopeful when he encourages me.

“So, you up for checking out the new Italian place in Columbus this weekend?” Trevor asks.

“You have the best job,” I tell him. “Of course, I want to go. What girl in their right mind turns down Italian?”

And what girl turns down dinner with Trevor? Not this one, even if it’s under the guise of friendship.

Just glancing up at Trevor makes a trail of unbidden goosebumps raise across my arms. He’s smiling down at me with that seemingly harmless grin and it shouldn’t have any impact on me after all these years. But somehow, like an aging bottle of Merlot, he’s becoming more potent with time. My reaction to him isn’t advisable considering he’s completely and irrevocably only my friend. I only wish my heart had an on/off switch.

“My job’s not all glamour and fun, you know that.” Trevor says.

I’m sure he’s only trying to make me feel better about the garden club assignment. I’ll be writing about discount dahlias and deals on peat moss while he’s getting paid to dip garlic bread in an oil and herb mixture and come up with ways to describe the ambiance. 

“Your job’s not completely fun,” I concede. “Like the week you had to do a writeup on mashed potatoes at ten different steak houses across the upper Ohio River valley. How many ways can you describe mashed potatoes?”

“Exactly. Though I do think I covered them all: fluffy, pillowy, comforting, dense, buttery, flavorful, hint of garlic, creamy, just like homemade, whipped, warm, distinct note of sour cream, perfect proportion of chives to bacon …”

Trevor drones on, reminiscing over descriptions of spuds while he walks ahead of me toward our cubicles. We grab our stuff and head to his car for the drive home.

If you enjoyed this first chapter, you can read the rest of the story in ebook or paperback available on Amazon. 

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The post Friend(shipped): A small town, friends-to-lovers romcom [First Chapter] appeared first on Sweet Romance Reads.

I’m doing something new … and that’s almost always a good thing.

Writing my first romance

In April of 2020, in the middle of a pandemic, I discovered my love for writing fiction. I had this character in my mind for almost a year prior, but I didn’t know if I could write a story that could hold together. Up until that point, I had written non-fiction to bless moms on my blog, in journal articles, in co-authored parenting books, in my book for parents of preteens and teens, and my book and devotional in the Slow Down, Mama set. 

But, in April, I took the risk. Some writer friends encouraged me, and I sat down to craft the story of a photojournalist who has sworn off men until she meets a buttoned up executive with a dream he hasn’t shared with anyone. Kat and Jack’s story (Love’s Second Chance) was published June 2020, and I was smitten with writing clean romance. I write all my clean romance under the name Patty H. Scott. 

My first series

The rest of that Unforgettable Love Stories series flowed out at the rate of a story every two months. I wrote about a fireman and a school teacher in a friends-to-lovers story called The Fireman’s Perfect Match. Then I wrote about a Texas Rancher who falls in love with a woman who works in the trendy fashion industry in Los Angeles in an opposites attract, interracial romance, Romancing the Rancher. After that I wrote my first enemies to lovers story in Not Falling for My Boss. And I wrapped up that series with Winning the Single Mom’s Heart, a story of Madison and Michael in a second chance love story that readers loved. 

My second series

After finishing that series, I had a yearning to write a small-town series where all the books and characters would be interrelated even though the stories would be stand-alone reads. I had certain elements of the beach town in mind, so I made up the fictional town of Cypress Cove and set four books there in the Calloway Inn Series: Someone to Hold (opposites attract), Someone to Love (friends-to-lovers), Someone to Kiss (age-gap with a woman who loses her vision), and Someone to Keep (fake romance with a man and woman recovering from addiction). 

A funny story

In the middle of writing that second series, I started imagining a Romcom (romantic comedy) I wanted to write. I read some books about writing comedy and I would jot down random scenes as they occurred to me. I had conversations with other authors I respect about the shift in focus from clean romance to romcom. By nature, comedy pushes limits.

Why have a pen name?

I knew some aspects I might draw upon in romantic comedy wouldn’t be as tame as most of what is in my clean romance. If you think of Dry Bar Comedy (clean comedy acts you can see online), that’s the kind of content I’m talking about. But, that may not appeal to all readers who want to read clean romance.

And some of the readers who might come to know me through reading my romcoms, may not be interested in clean romances.

I will never include premarital sex or descriptions of sexual encounters beyond kissing in my books. All my books will stay PG and closed door. Going into this shift, though, I knew my romcoms would push more boundaries because that’s what comedy does. And I wanted to be true to what readers expect from me.

What you see is what you get

One of the things we authors have to grapple with is the necessity of building trust with our readers. We need to be clear through our covers, our blurbs (descriptions of our stories) and our content as to what we are writing. When a reader picks up a book, a writer wants them to find what they came to read. When we present one thing and deliver another, we break the reader’s trust. And that’s something I never want to do. 

Imagine picking up a book with a scene of a sweet couple standing on the seashore holding hands, you anticipate a clean romance with a happily ever after. But when you start reading, the first scene is a graphic murder and the story contains the mystery that ensues as the police hunt down the criminal. You would be shocked and disappointed … and ultimately, you wouldn’t trust that author’s books again. The next time you saw a sweet cover on one of their books, you would not buy it (if you don’t enjoy murder mysteries and you are looking to read clean romance). 

That kind of misrepresentation hurts both readers and authors.

Because my two genres will have slightly different content and my comedy will push the limits more than my clean romance, I decided to take on a pen name for my romantic comedy. I’ll be writing those books under the name Savannah Scott.  

I want to help you know what I’m offering when you pick up one of my books. When you choose to read a book by Patty H Scott, I want you to know you’re getting clean romance with swoon-worthy kisses, relatable characters in a setting you’d like to call home.

When you pick up my romcoms by Savannah Scott, I want you to know that you are getting a story laced with humor and where I might push some limits for the sake of comedy. I want you to trust I won’t ever cross lines or go behind closed doors. You’ll be getting stories that will make you laugh, smile and give you all the feels including the happily ever after you long for. 

Love Laughter and Happily Ever After

When I write, I hope you find books that delight your heart and help you escape real life a little. I’m writing love, laughter and the happily ever afters you crave.

If you want to hear about my books, get sneak peeks into my writing before it is released, and get recommendations of other clean romances and clean romcoms I recommend, you can sign up for my weekly Sweet Reads email. I love connecting with you!

The post appeared first on Sweet Reads.

I’m doing something new … and that’s almost always a good thing.

Writing my first romance

In April of 2020, in the middle of a pandemic, I discovered my love for writing fiction. I had this character in my mind for almost a year prior, but I didn’t know if I could write a story that could hold together. Up until that point, I had written non-fiction to bless moms on my blog, in journal articles, in co-authored parenting books, in my book for parents of preteens and teens, and my book and devotional in the Slow Down, Mama set. 

But, in April, I took the risk. Some writer friends encouraged me, and I sat down to craft the story of a photojournalist who has sworn off men until she meets a buttoned up executive with a dream he hasn’t shared with anyone. Kat and Jack’s story (Love’s Second Chance) was published June 2020, and I was smitten with writing clean romance. I write all my clean romance under the name Patty H. Scott. 

My first series

The rest of that Unforgettable Love Stories series flowed out at the rate of a story every two months. I wrote about a fireman and a school teacher in a friends-to-lovers story called The Fireman’s Perfect Match. Then I wrote about a Rancher who falls in love with a city woman in an opposites attract, interracial romance, Romancing the Rancher. After that I wrote my first enemies to lovers story in Not Falling for My Boss. And I wrapped up that series with Winning the Single Mom’s Heart, a story of Madison and Michael in a second chance love story that readers loved. 

My second series

After finishing that series, I had a yearning to write a small-town series where all the books and characters would be interrelated even though the stories would be stand-alone reads. I had certain elements of the beach town in mind, so I made up the fictional town of Cypress Cove and set four books there in the Calloway Inn Series: Someone to Hold (opposites attract), Someone to Love (friends-to-lovers), Someone to Kiss (age-gap with a woman who loses her vision), and Someone to Keep (fake romance with a man and woman recovering from addiction). 

A funny story

In the middle of writing that second series, I started imagining a Romcom (romantic comedy) I wanted to write. I read some books about writing comedy and I would jot down random scenes as they occurred to me. I had conversations with other authors I respect about the shift in focus from clean romance to romcom. By nature, comedy pushes limits.

Why have a pen name?

I knew some of the things I might draw upon wouldn’t be as tame as some of my clean readers would want. And some of the readers who might read my romcoms, may not be interested in my clean romances.

While I will never include premarital sex or descriptions of sexual encounters beyond kissing in my books. I knew my romcoms would be more edgy or daring and I wanted to be true to what readers expect from me.

What you see is what you get

One of the things we authors have to grapple with is the necessity of building trust with our readers. We need to be clear through our covers, our blurbs (descriptions of our stories) and our content as to what we are writing. When a reader picks up a book, you want them to find what they came to read. When we present one thing and deliver another, we break the reader’s trust. And that’s something I never want to do. 

Imagine picking up a book with a scene of a sweet couple standing on the seashore, but when you start reading the first scene is a graphic murder and the mystery that follows as the police hunt down the criminal.

That kind of misrepresentation hurts both readers and authors.

Because my two genres will have slightly different content and my comedy will push the limits more than my clean romance, I decided to take on a pen name for my romantic comedy. I’ll be writing those books under the name Savannah Scott.  

I want to help you know what I’m offering when you pick up one of my books. When you choose to read a book by Patty H Scott, I want you to know you’re getting clean romance with swoon-worthy kisses, relatable characters in a setting you’d like to call home.

When you pick up my romcoms by Savannah Scott, I want you to know that you are getting a story laced with humor and some pushing the limits without ever crossing the lines and going behind closed doors. You’ll be getting stories that will make you laugh, smile and give you all the feels including the happily ever after you long for. 

Love Laughter and Happily Ever After

When I write, I hope you find books that delight your heart and help you escape real life a little for a laugh, all the feels and the happily ever afters you crave.

If you want to hear about my books, get sneak peeks into my writing before it is released, and get recommendations of other clean romances and clean romcoms I recommend, you can sign up for my weekly Sweet Reads email. I love connecting with you!

The post appeared first on Sweet Reads.

I remember having crushes on boys since somewhere around the sixth grade when I thought I wanted to marry a boy named Andy from church. He was kind and had this sandy-brown wavy hair and soft brown eyes. If you could find my old diary, stories of Andy and my dreamy thoughts about him would fill many of the pages. 

I dated a few guys through high school and had one very serious relationship in college with a young man who was showy, funny, and used to make all sorts of grand gestures, like climbing the outside of a building to bring flowers and a poem he wrote to my window.  

When I moved to California for graduate school, I ended up settling in Manhattan Beach after spending some months in the Pasadena area. My mixed-breed dog and I rented a back house behind a couple. The husband was a dog trainer and I don’t think he ever was too impressed with my precious dog. She was well-behaved, but she chose when and how to listen off leash.

I made friends with a few women my age (in our early 20s) and we all used to hang out on the beach with other young adults, playing volleyball, barbecuing, or skating on the strand. One day in mid-December (which is warm and sunny in southern California), I was moving into my own apartment. I had asked a few friends to help me load up the U-Haul. They gathered some other friends, including this guy named Jon Scott who grew up in the beach cities and was three years older than me. Jon was a surfer-skateboarder who worked at a local car dealership. He was reserved, but kind, and even though he had never met me, he showed up to help me move. 

After my move, Jon and I kept bumping into one another at events where our friends hung out. Sometimes a group of us would go out to eat at a local restaurant especially this one called Cafe Fifties. Jon always ordered the soup and salad, and whenever we sat near one another, we ended up in our own little bubble, talking to one another and pretty much ignoring the rest of the group.

At one point, Jon dated a friend of mine. They went on two dates. On the second date, he told her he was no longer interested in dating her. He said,”I’m looking for something long-term. I know we aren’t going to be that for one another, so I’m just letting you know I don’t think we should go out anymore.” My friend was very high-profile and had a personality larger than life. After that night with Jon, she and I and another friend were laying out at the beach and she said, “Jon Scott doesn’t break up with me. I break up with Jon Scott.” He was such an unassuming person. She couldn’t believe he had called it off with her.

One day, Jon and I were going to go with two other friends to a dance at a community center in Hermosa Beach. We were meeting our friends at this restaurant called The Kettle and then the four of us were going to drive over to the dance. Little did we know that these two friends were secretly dating. They never showed up to dinner because they were in the middle of their first fight. Jon got a text from the guy saying they weren’t going to make it. Jon turned to me and asked if I still wanted to stay and eat and then go to the dance. I said yes.

We ate and talked and I never felt uncomfortable or at a lack as to what to talk about. Jon always put me at ease. We went to the dance in Jon’s car and when we got there a bunch of other friends were already there. Throughout the night we danced in groups and some guys would occasionally ask me to dance or girls would ask Jon to dance.

When it came time for Jon to drive me home, I realized I had been jealous when other girls were dancing with Jon. I wanted to talk to him about my feelings, but I was so afraid to mess up our friendship. I had been in some disastrous relationships in the past and I was gun shy about romance in general. What I had in my friendship with Jon felt simultaneously precious and precarious. 

We got in the car and I said, “I think I want to talk to you about something, but I’m not sure.” Jon said, “You should.” It was almost like he knew what I was thinking, but had the same fears I did. I said, “No. It’s okay,” letting my fear override these new feelings of attraction. “I think we should talk about it,” Jon said. That sentence led me to be a bit bolder and I said, “What if we talk about this and it messes up our friendship?” Jon answered, “What if we don’t give this a shot and we’re meant to be.” 

Jon is not a naturally bold person. He’s careful, thoughtful, and somewhat methodical. I’m the one who takes emotional risks, loves adventure, and tends to take a carpe diem approach to life. Aside from his daring lifestyle in sports like surfing, skiing, cycling and skateboarding, Jon would be considered the antitheses of a risk-taker. But, here he was laying it all on the line. 

When we got to where my car was parked, Jon and I sat in his car talking about what it would look like to try to date one another. I had been going on casual dates with guys from our friend group and other acquaintances when they asked me out. Nothing serious, just going out to movies or a meal. Jon asked me not to see anyone while we were seeing where things would lead between us. Talk about a BOLD MOVE, right? He said he didn’t want to compete with anyone and he wanted us to give this a fair shot. Usually being exclusive comes after weeks or months of dating, but Jon wanted to cordon off our time together so we could really see if there were something there. 

After our talk, Jon gave me my first kiss, sitting in his car, dropping me off at my car on a night when I thought I’d be going out with friends and it turned out I was beginning a romantic relationship with the man who would become my forever. 

Within two months of dating, I knew Jon would be the man I married. I didn’t tell him that, but I was sure. 

Still, I was in graduate school. And when I graduated with my Masters in Marriage and Family Therapy, I was burnt out and then my job took off. I had a two hour daily commute in LA traffic and long hours as a manager in a health care facility.

Fitting wedding planning into the hub-bub of my life seemed like too much. Jon vaguely asked about getting married and I graciously, but clearly put him off.

I know! Don’t ask me why, except I was burnt out and overextended. 

It took three years after my graduation for Jon to muster the courage to ask me officially if I would marry him. He did it in a funny way too. I had been visiting a friend in Cambria (a town up the Central Coast) one weekend.

When I returned home Jon said, “What do you think of Labor Day weekend?”

I said, “I like it?”

“I mean for a wedding,” he said.

“A wedding?” I asked.

“Yeah. I was thinking it would be easier for your family from out of town to come to a wedding over a long weekend.”

“Are we getting married?” I asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “I’m just thinking. I’ll ask you properly later.”

“Well, I really like Labor Day,” I told him. HINT HINT. 

That was in July. I didn’t think I was going to pull off a two-month planning session, but I finally wanted to be married and in order to plan a wedding and all I needed was Jon’s proposal. August passed. September too. Every time we went out to eat, or took a special walk along the beach, I thought, “This is it,” or “Is this it?”

Spoiler alert: No. It wasn’t. 

But, in October, one morning, Jon took me to a breakfast at the Portofino Hotel overlooking the Harbor and then he drove me to this spot where the cliffs block the southern view of the rest of the ocean. As we stood on the beach, Jon said, “I used to come here as a boy, and I always wondered what was around the other side of those cliffs. And just like we can’t see around those cliffs, we don’t know what our future holds. But, whatever it holds, I want to go through it with you. Will you marry me?” 

I said yes. And we spent the next ten months planning a wedding at the San Pedro Yacht Club with a honeymoon up the Northern Coast of California. 

To this day, our friendship undergirds our marriage. We’ve been stretched thin, tested, tried, and almost given up at times. Ultimately, we’ve hung in together and our friendship has held fast even when our romance dimmed like embers in a fire that has nearly burnt out. The flames always rekindle, but the friendship remains when nothing else does. 

Jon makes me laugh like no one else can — almost daily. He’s funny when he isn’t trying to be, thoughtful beyond words, and he puts up with my highs and lows and all my extreme opinions and quirkiness.

I found my match, my friend who turned into my lover.

And that’s our true friends to lovers story. 

The post Our Real Friends-to-Lovers Story appeared first on Sweet Reads.

I’m doing a series here to dovetail with my book, Slow Down, Mama: Intentional Living in a Hurried World, to help you slow down and savor your life.

Our goal isn’t “slowing” as in, doing nothing. The purpose is to live a life where you curate your choices so that what you add into your days, and how you spend your time makes the greatest impact and adds the deepest meaning. 

BUDGETING BASICS

If you think about budgeting money, often the first thing you need to do is look at where your money is going. The same goes with our time and energy. In order to budget well, spend well, and invest well, we need to assess what we are already doing with our time. 

 

A LITTLE PRACTICE Today I want to encourage you to take a really short bit of time, like five to ten minutes and do this simple exercise: Fold a piece of paper in half.On one side write out all your responsibilities, obligations, and activities that make demands on your time and energy.On the other side write a list of your goals, dreams, or longings.Then ask yourself what could be released on the side of your paper that is filled with your current “to-dos” to make room for something on the side with your “wish list.”It’s sometimes this simple. We just need to step back and look at our lives and recalibrate.We can go mindlessly through life allowing demands and commitments to pile up and pull at us, or we can stop, assess where our time is going and make a choice to change something.♥

 

Buckets of GraceAnd I know sometimes we’re so overwhelmed that even evaluating the way we use time feels like a project … just one more chore on the to-do list. If that’s you, don’t do this. But do something else. Give yourself buckets and buckets of grace until you feel ready. I know what it’s like to be weary and lose motivation. You won’t stay there, I promise. Bookmark this exercise and come back to it later. ♥

 

One Woman’s StoryA great example of this comes from my friend in Indiana. She is the mom of six children. After reading through my book, Slow Down, Mama: Intentional Living in a Hurried World, and going through the devotional Slow Down, Mama: Thirty-One Days to Help You Slow and Savor with a group of friends, she decided to make a change.

 

She had been highly focused on keeping her home perfectly clean. While a clean house is a wonderful thing, and cleaning is part of life, sometimes we end up putting cleaning at the heart of our to-do list and we lose sight of the things that matter most. 

 

My friend decided to start taking walks with her six children and spending time outdoors instead of trying to keep her home perfectly clean. We’ve talked about this and delighted in the awareness that years from now she won’t look back remembering clean counters and dusted surfaces as the most valued contributions she made in the world. Instead, she’s pouring into relationships and lives. She’s chosen being present with her kids over keeping a perfect home. She still cleans. She just doesn’t idolize cleaning and let it take over her life or her time. Want to hear my story of a small change and sacrifice we made to gain more family time that paid off in BIG ways? Check out my post on Family Dinners. ♥

 

Finding CommunityIf you want to share what you came up with as you folded your paper and made a choice to build in something life-giving, the women in my Sweet Reader group on Facebook would love to encourage you as you live a more intentional life (and girlfriend, intentional can be “getting more rest” or “spending less time running errands.” It doesn’t have to be solving a problem or achieving a goal. It needs to be what fits you.)We are a group of women who gather to share life and books.

 

Regular Encouragement and BooksIf you want to read the book that started this movement, you can find Slow Down, Mama: Intentional Living in a Hurried World and the devotional that can go with the book or be used separately both on Amazon. If you would like to receive my monthly email to help you slow and savor you can sign up here. When you do you will receive a link to my free book, Ten Keys to Avoiding Power Struggles.

If you want to receive my weekly email about my fiction writing (clean romance) where I share a sneak peek at my life as a writer and some book recommendations, you can sign up here. You will receive a link to the free prequel novella, The Matchmaker’s Accidental Arrangement. 

 

A Weekly InvitationEvery week I post another tip for you to … Slow Down, Mama! Join me here for more encouragement and practical wisdom to help you live for what matters most. 

The post Slow Down, Mama: Budgeting Your Time appeared first on Patty H. Scott.

Chapter One

Amelia

 

The bell over the door at Salty Dog Coffee jingles as I pull it open and walk in. The crowd has thinned by this hour, so I make my way straight to the counter.

“Good morning, Amelia. The usual?”

“Yes please, Marcel.”

The usual. That pretty much describes me and my life. I hand Marcel a five and say, “Keep the change,” as I step down toward the end of the counter to wait for my nonfat sugar-free vanilla latte, extra hot. I pick up a copy of the local paper left on an unoccupied bistro table browse. A woman squeezes past me to grab her drink and then turns to pass me again to get condiments. I step back toward the wall and glance at the page where the paper has fallen open.

Dalton Price. He’s the last person I’d expect to see featured in the local news since he left Cypress Cove as fast as his Audi would drive him five years ago. He always seemed too big for this town. Larger than life with dreams so lofty only a big city could contain them.

I scan down the article. Looks like his real estate and property investment company is opening a local branch—Price Properties. Well, good for Dalton. I imagine he’ll send someone else here to run it for him. I can’t see him coming back this way when he’s living the life he always wanted in San Francisco.

Not that I’ve kept up with him intentionally, I just hear the talk. It’s hard not to. People here tend to share the latest and you’d have to live in a hermitage to avoid overhearing what’s what. Honestly, we probably could save some trees and do without the local paper. I would bet this news about Dalton will be up and down Cypress Street before the tourist lunch rush is over today.

“Here you go,” Marcel says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Have a nice day, Amelia. Don’t break too many hearts today.”

I laugh, even though he’s been saying the same thing to me since I was in high school.

“I’ll do my best, Marcel. No promises.” I wink. “And tell Sylvie I said hi.”

As I step out the front door, Mrs. Ojeda passes by taking her dachshund on a walk. “Oh! Amelia! Good Morning. Have you heard about Dalton Price? He’s opening a realty office right here in Cypress. You always did have eyes for him, didn’t you? I mean, of course you did. If I were your age, I’d be smitten too. He’s the whole package. Well, maybe now you’ll have your chance.”

I stand slack jawed for a moment. Then I get my wits about me enough to straighten Mrs Ojeda out. “Actually, no. I didn’t have eyes for Dalton. He may have asked me to a dance in high school, but that was years ago, and I said no, so … no.”

She makes a noise like hmph and says, as if she’s talking to no one in particular, “Well, you’ve got your chance now.” And then she keeps walking as though the matter is settled. “Have a nice day, dear,” she hollers over her shoulder.

As I watch her stroll away, muttering to her dog, I think about Dalton. I didn’t have eyes for him. Really. He was the typically gangly and awkward junior high boy, but he filled out a little in high school. He was nice enough, but not on my radar. Granted, I’ve seen a few pictures of him since he left. City life seems to have been kind to him. He has that sort of tousled hair that must take at least three products to make it look like he ran his fingers through it just right without any effort. His face sports a five o’clock shadow at all times, the kind of scruff that looks manly, but not disheveled. I mean, his name alone screams financially successful, drool-worthy specimen of manhood. But Dalton Price has never been my type, even if he has become extremely easy on the eyes in his more recent GQ years.

Besides, I’m strictly a small-town girl. I have everything I could ever want within the one mile stretch of our town from the south beach to the north village and the little farms on our eastern outskirts. Men like Dalton Price don’t appreciate the sweetness of a simple life. If and when I ever do settle down, it will be with a man who loves Cypress Cove as much as I do.

Enough dwelling on the daily gossip. I’m getting as bad as the seniors who hang out at Slices of Heaven and share the latest scoop. As much as I love my hometown, I could sometimes use a little space from the rumors and busybodies.

I hop up into the cab of my pickup and set my coffee in the flimsy, built-in plastic cup holder sticking out of the dash. Tonight’s the farmer’s market in San Luis Obispo, so I have to run out to our family’s farm and start loading up the fruits and vegetables we’ll be selling. I turn on the radio and sing along to a Tori Kelly song as the shops on Cypress Street pass outside my windows. Before long, I turn onto Old Ranch Road to head out the east end of town. I wind along the farm properties where trees arch overhead forming a canopy. I love this stretch of road. It’s like the section of town time forgot. Nothing has changed out here since I was little. There’s something comforting in having the same scenery year after year. Predictability is underrated.

I’m belting out a line in the song about not worrying when my phone rings. I keep one wrist propped on the steering wheel while I grab my cell off the passenger seat. This old truck wouldn’t know Bluetooth if it jumped up and hitched a ride, so I have to answer the old-fashioned way. Good thing I could navigate these farm roads with my eyes closed.

It’s my younger twin sister, Katie.

“Hey, Kates. What’s up?”

“Are you driving?”

“You know it. I’m heading to the farm to load up for tonight’s market then I thought I’d pop in on Nana. What are you up to?”

“Just finishing uploading some photos onto my website before I go back to painting,” she says. “I need a break, so I thought I’d check in.”

I switch the phone so it’s on speaker mode and prop it in my other cup holder so I can sip my coffee.

“Are you one-handed driving?” Katie asks.

“Yes, Mom. And since when are you the responsible one of the two of us?”

She laughs. “You’ve got me there. So, fill me in on all things Cypress.”

“Oh! There is one juicy tidbit. Dalton Price is opening a realty office in town. It was even in the paper.”

“Of course it was. Not that you’d need the paper to find out.”

“Right?” I agree.

“So, you think he’ll come down?” She asks.

“Who knows,” I say. “I mean, he’s stayed away all these years. I don’t see him coming back.”

“You never know,” Katie says. “I have this theory that they put homing devices in us at birth. Something always seems to pull people back to Cypress Cove. Maybe Dalton feels the magnetic tug of home.”

I just hum in agreement. What’s with this day? I can’t seem to dodge the topic of Dalton Price.

“Speaking of coming back home, when are you heading up here again? I miss hanging out with my baby sister.”

“Baby by two minutes,” she reminds me. “And, I was thinking maybe in a few weeks. I need to get this painting done. There’s a coffee house owner here who wants to feature me next month and I need to make a priority of finishing some originals for her.”

“You know you can always paint up here.” I remind her.

Maybe it’s the cliché twin thing, but I feel the absence of Katie whenever we go too long without seeing one another face to face.

And as though she could read my thoughts, she says, “I miss you too.”

“Okay. Well, plan on a trip in a few weeks. We’ll take the kayaks out and I’d even go into San Luis with you if you want to do something other than hang out locally.”

“Sounds good,” she says. “I could actually use a little time away from L.A.”

After we hang up, I think of everyone who left our town right after high school. They took off like a flock of gulls being chased by a child. Here we live in a seaside town where travelers from all over the world go out of their way to visit, and people like my sister and Dalton couldn’t wait to move out. I’ll never understand it.

I pull off the road onto our farm driveway. The modest yellow farmhouse sits toward the back of the property along a creek. Vegetable gardens, mini orchards and a building that serves as our weekend farm stand line the front of the property closest to the main road.

I hop out of my truck and walk back toward the house. I hear my name and turn to see my mom on her hands and knees in a row of tomato plants surrounded by baskets on either side of her.

“Want to pitch in?” she asks. “I’m picking half of what’s ripe to send down with you and keeping the other half for the stand this weekend. Should be a big crowd considering Cypress Days start Saturday.”

Oh, yeah. Cypress Days. I had nearly forgotten one of our annual festivals. It’s not a big deal to those of us who live here, but people from all around Central California and other tourists flock into town for events like this. All the hotels, inns and B & Bs fill to capacity and the shops nearly unbearably overflow with total strangers. I know our economy thrives on tourism, but I have such a love-hate thing with people overrunning our town like some cheap one-night stand.

I bend to help Mom pick tomatoes, putting some in each bushel basket and feeling the invisible weight I didn’t even know I was carrying ease off my shoulders as I fall into the rhythm of working with my hands outdoors in our garden.

“I’m popping in to see Nana after we load up for tonight,” I tell Mom.

“Yeah? She’ll love that. You can take her a few tomatoes and I’ve got a squash for her too.”

“Okay.”

“Did you hear about …?”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish her question before I say, “Dalton?”

She chuckles. “Yes. Dalton.”

“Yeah. I’ve already been to town, so yes.”

“I haven’t seen him since his parents moved to Houston to be nearer to their grandbabies. I wonder what his intentions are,” she sighs.

“Intentions?” I’m curious.

“Real estate. It might involve strictly buying and selling properties, but sometimes people want to make changes,” Mom says as she looks off toward the farmhouse. “Call me old school, but I get sentimental when I think about someone overhauling our town. I say leave well enough alone. We’re charming and we don’t need to be updated.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” I tell her. “I guess time will tell what Dalton’s intentions are.”

The post Chapter One of Someone to Hold (The Calloway Inn: Book One) appeared first on Patty H. Scott.

Chapter One

Madison

Valentine’s Day always reminds me of Jake. Thoughts of him flit across my mind like a slide show as I stand at our kitchen island helping my six-year-old, Olivia, assemble cards and candy for all the kids in her kindergarten class. Scissors, glue, markers, heart confetti and scraps of red, pink, and white construction paper cover the countertop.

“I don’t even want to give one of these to Brock. He pulled my hair last week at recess and he called Ellie, Ellie-belly-you’re-so-smelly,” Olivia tells me as she stuffs a glittery card and a roll of smarties into an envelope and turns it over.

“And before you tell me,” she continues, “I know we have to be nice to our enemies. But you should see him. He’s pushing it, Mommy.”

I hide my grin. My girl has an indomitable spirit.

“Well, you’re right,” I tell her. “Some people can be mean, but we need to be the bigger person. I’m glad you’re still giving him a card.”

“Even if he is a Brock-head,” she answers, looking at me from under her long lashes with that spunky gaze.

I give her the mom eye that says watch it, missy as I smile at her.

“I know. I know. No name-calling,” she relents. “I didn’t say it to him. Just you, Mommy.”

My sister, Savannah, walks in the kitchen carrying two bags of groceries.

“Looks like Cupid had a full-blown party in here, y’all,” she says.

“We’re just finishing up and then we’re heading to bed, right Princess Bug?” I remind Olivia.

She puts on a slightly pouty face, but only for a moment.

“Want me to help you get groceries from the car?” I ask Savannah.

“No, darlin’. I’ve got ’em.” Even though she relocated to California five years ago, Savannah’s southern accent remains strong. I guess mine does too, but I don’t hear it like I hear hers.

Olivia and I finish assembling her cards and put them all in a bag in the front hallway near her backpack to take to school tomorrow. Once she’s tucked in bed, I tidy the kitchen, gathering the scraps of paper and wiping all the random confetti and glitter from the counter and floors. I head into the living room to collapse on the couch. Savannah’s got some home improvement show on. I pick up my phone and see a text from my best friend, Danae.

Danae: How are you holding up?

Madison: I’m fine.

Danae: I know this week can be hard on you.

Madison: I miss him more on days when I’m forced to think about all he is missing out on, but I’m pressing through it.

Danae: Want to talk?

Madison: Thanks, but I’m pretty wiped out. I’ll just see you Thursday.

Danae: K, love you

Madison: Love you too.

I set my phone back down, convincing myself I don’t need to scroll social media to see post after post of happy couples. I turn my eyes to the TV as I grab the throw blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around my legs. My mind drifts to the first Valentine’s when Jake and I were in high school.

The door to our tenth grade World History class opens as five students enter announcing, “We’ve got a singing telegram for Madison Reeves.” I sense the blush rising in my cheeks. My heart hopes it’s from Jake, but so far, he seems oblivious to how I feel about him. He’s comfortable in the friendship we’ve had since third grade when he moved into our neighborhood.

I’m pretty sure he thinks of me as just one of the guys. The group of students walk toward me as all my classmates point to me. They gather around my desk and start singing Truly, Madly, Deeply by Savage Garden. I dare to look around during the song and catch Jake staring at me. I force myself not to look away from him and he gives me the slightest nod as a small grin travels across his face.

My whole life shifts in that moment. He sent this telegram. He wants more with me.

“Hey, are you okay?” I hear Savannah’s question as I wipe a stray tear off my cheek.

“Yeah. Just thinking,” I answer her as she gets up from the love seat and comes over to me.

She sits next to me and pulls me into her arms. “It’s not always going to hurt like this, Maddy.”

“I know. I just wish he could be here. Olivia’s getting so big. He’s missing all of it.”

Savannah pulls me into her arms, and I rest my head on her shoulder as I tuck my legs up under me. We sit there quietly as she wordlessly comforts the empty places in my heart. I allow steady tears to flow, even though I’m afraid the reservoir of grief won’t drain regardless of how often or hard I cry. It’s been over six years and the pain sometimes feels as acute as if it’s only been six days.

* * *

Our morning routine basically runs itself during the school year. The smell of coffee drifts upstairs from the pot that automatically turned on fifteen minutes ago. Savannah’s long gone by now to the news station. She’s on the morning show and has to be out of the house by 3:45 a.m. every day to get to work by 4:15 a.m.

Olivia jumps into my bed like clockwork. “Gooood morning!” she says in her dramatic way. She has two settings: asleep and fully awake. I’m more of the give me an hour and I promise I’ll be nice after coffee type of person, but for my daughter’s sake I force myself into premature cheeriness.

“Are you excited for Valentine’s Day?” I ask.

“Duh,” she answers.

“Duh? … Since when do you say duh to your mom?” I tease as I roll over and tickle her sides while she giggles and twists all over my bed.

“Okay! Okay!” she laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s more like it,” I tell her with a smile and a little wink. “Now let me get up so we can shower and get dressed.”

Even though we don’t live in Georgia anymore, I’m partial to the manners I learned growing up. California tends to be way more casual, so it’s a bit like I’m swimming upstream having Olivia say yes ma’am and no sir and insisting she call adults Miss or Mister, but I’m sticking with it anyway.

We climb out of my bed and I follow her to her bathroom to shower. When we moved into this house, we put Olivia in the master bedroom at the opposite end of the upstairs, so she has room to play and later to study in there. She basically showers herself these days in the master bathroom only needing my help to shampoo her hair. It blows my mind how quickly she’s gaining independence.

We eat breakfast and I pour my second cup of coffee into a travel mug. Olivia grabs her backpack and bag of valentines and we leave for school.

I’m finishing my credential to be an elementary school teacher. In the meantime, I work mornings at Olivia’s school as a teacher’s aide in one of the fourth-grade classrooms. Three afternoons a week I stay after lunch to work in the front office. 

Olivia and I park in the employee lot at the side of the building and walk in together. She leads the way to her classroom, pausing occasionally to say either, “Hurry up, Mommy,” or “You are slower than molasses in winter.”

Once she’s at the door to her classroom, she turns to me. “Have a great day!” Then she gives me a quick hug and bounds into the room without seeming to give me another thought.

I watch as she hangs her backpack and joins a group of children sitting around a table. I hear their bubbly conversation floating out into the hallway as the door shuts behind me.

The morning at school flows like usual, with the exception of the giddy energy the kids have anticipating their end-of-the-day Valentine’s party. Normally on Wednesdays I go to the office right after lunch, and Savannah picks Olivia up for me. Today, I’m in the classroom all day.

At the sound of the last bell all the students line up to either get on their busses or wait for parent pick-up in the carpool lane. I walk them out and leave them with the yard duty in charge and then return to help Mrs. Gibbons clean up from our class party. The janitors will be in later, but we still want to get the decorations torn down and tidy up a bit.

“Do you have any plans this evening?” Mrs. Gibbons asks me as she pulls down the last red heart off the wall.

“Just a quiet dinner with Olivia and my sister.”

“Hmmmm.” She hums thoughtfully.

“You?”

“No. Ever since George passed away, I’ve spent Valentine’s Day evening going through old photos, thanking God for what we had, remembering the good times, and … well … that’s what I do.”

I get the sense she sheds tears during her solitary Valentine’s nights, but I don’t press.

“You’d be welcome to join us for dinner,” I offer.

“Oh, thank you, dear. No. Honestly, I’m looking forward to reminiscing.”

I take the stack of decorations from her desk and place them in the Rubbermaid tub on the chair.

“May I be a nosy old schoolteacher?” she asks.

I nod.

“Have you considered dating yet? I know it’s complicated, and our situations are so different, but you’re so young.”

I don’t know what to say. Lately I have been noticing men again. She’s not wrong. At twenty-eight years old, I am still young. But I always experience a little pang of betrayal when I am attracted to someone else. In my head I know I should consider the option at some point. Maybe.

“I haven’t met anyone worth changing the status quo,” I tell her.

“Well, I won’t press you. Just don’t shut the door to the option.”

I change the subject to tomorrow’s history project about Abraham Lincoln. I need space from thinking about the potential of opening my heart and life to another man.

We finish the last bit of cleanup and Mrs. Gibbons locks the classroom door. In the parking lot we go our separate ways.

The whole drive home I think about what it would be like to date. How would it even work with Olivia in the picture? Jake was my first boyfriend—my first everything. I can’t imagine someone taking his place.

Want to preorder your copy of Winning the Single Mom’s Heart to read the rest of Madison and Michael’s Story? You can. Click here to get your copy for 99c. 

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The post Chapter One of Winning the Single Mom’s Heart appeared first on Patty H. Scott.

Perfectionism.

At first glance, aiming for perfect standards doesn’t seem so bad. Striving for excellence can move us ahead in the world, give us a sense of accomplishment, and even end up impressing others. But, often our pursuit of excellence becomes consuming. What looks great on the surface actually can hide a reality of insecurity, dissatisfaction, and condemnation. 

Just so we’re clear, perfectionism doesn’t mean we are super-organized or that we always get things perfect (don’t we wish!). 

Perfectionism is an inner striving to control that means we want things a certain way. That striving leads us to dissatisfaction. When we apply unrealistic standards to ourselves, we end up feeling we can never hit the mark. 

Striving for excellence can be a GREAT thing when it’s done from the right motives. When it is done because we feel insecure or fearful, it’s the worst of traps, and one we want to help our children avoid. 

A Human Doing, not a Human Being

Being the first born child in my family, meant being a guinea pig for my parents. You know: I was the child who got to be the recipient of all the trial and error parenting approaches. First borns are often under the pressure to be the best. My parents both pushed themselves and me to strive for excellence in every area. Somehow, I ended up with the feeling that my worth was determined by my performance. Instead of feeling my value as a human being, I became dead set on becoming a human doing. I had thoughts I couldn’t even articulate until much later in life, such as, “I’m not enough,” and “I have to be the best at everything I do.” That kind of pressure drove me through my childhood and well into my adulthood. 

Underneath these feelings was a pervasive sense that merely being me wasn’t valuable enough. I feared the rejection of people around me and somehow thought being perfect would protect me from a losses in relationships.

This line of reasoning is so faulty. As I have healed and matured, I’ve learned that we draw near to others most through vulnerability and imperfections. When someone appears “perfect,” it’s often intimidating and serves to build a wall rather than a bridge in relationships. 

photo courtesy of matthew hamilton on unsplash

The Lies of Perfectionism

There are many lies woven into the myth of perfection. One of the greatest is the idea that we actually can be perfect. Of course, if we say that out loud, we will immediately dismiss the idea. We know we can’t be perfect! Somehow reality gets shoved aside in the perfectionist’s day-to-day life.

Living a perfectionistic lifestyle means never being satisfied with the status-quo, always striving to be the best, to outdo ourselves, and to have all our outer and inner world in order. Mistakes and messes have no place in the life of the perfectionist.

The perfectionistic lifestyle creates a heavy burden. We live with inner, invisible shackles that keep us driven to busyness and overachievement. The demands of achievement come at great cost to ourselves. We lose sleep, relaxation, and even intimacy as we strive to be all we think we need to be. 

The Four Basic Needs

We’re in the middle of a series on meeting our children’s four basic emotional needs. Meeting our child’s deepest needs establishes something solid within them that will carry into adulthood. To read about the four needs you can go here. To read about meeting the need for love and how to help your child avoid using attention-seeking behavior, read this post.

A Sense of Worth

We’ve talked about the four basic needs our children have. Today we’re talking about a sense of worth. Worth can often be determined by how rare something is or the price we would pay to obtain it. For example, the Ford Cobra had fewer than 1000 cars made before 1968. At that time the world population was a little over 3.5 billion. That made the Shelby Cobra a rare item. The worth of the Cobra was astronomical because of how rare it was. When a 5oth anniversary edition of this vehicle was produced, the inventory sold out in fewer than 48 hours. That’s worth and value!

photo courtesy of hemmings.com

Think of your one-of-a-kind child, handcrafted by God. Never again will there be another like them. Read Psalm 139 with your child in mind. Each person is fearfully and wonderfully made, knit together purposefully by God Himself, watched and led by God each step, known intimately by a Creator who loves and cares.

Can we convey our child’s God-given worth as we parent? 

When our child feels they are valued for who they uniquely are (not what they do or don’t do) they develop inner security. The need to prove themselves disappears. A child who knows their worth can share their talents, personality, and strengths. They also can acknowledge their failings, quirks, and sins. They feel treasured, loved, forgiven, and wanted unconditionally. 

 

When children do not experience love for who they are, perfectionism takes hold. They begin to work for grades, sports trophies, outshining others, or even behaving well just to earn favor. While we all would love to see our children aim for all these great achievements, we want them to do that because of a healthy motive, not because they are compensating for feelings of insecurity and needing to prove their worth through performance. 

Five Ways to Keep Your Child from The Trap of Perfectionism 

So, let’s get down to what we can do in a very practical sense to help our child develop their sense of worth so they don’t fall into the trap of perfectionism.

Show grace.

Grace is the freely extended gifts and blessings of God, without us earning any part of what is given. Our children need to experience grace from us as parents. They need to know there are consequences for their choices and actions. Beyond those consequences, they need to feel that they don’t lose our love or all the blessings of our relationship with them no matter what.

God tells us while we were His enemies Jesus died for us. That’s grace. His death and the gift of eternal life weren’t contingent on us or our behavior at all.  Knowing that gives us a deep sense of gratitude and security. We didn’t earn it and we can’t botch it. Our children need to feel this same sense of security. They are loved regardless of choices or behavior.

photo courtesy of zahra amiri on unsplash

Extend mercy.

While grace is giving goodness when it isn’t earned. Mercy has to do with showing kindness when it is in our power to make someone suffer.

As parents, we are constantly disciplining (discipling or teaching) our children. The attitude we take as we lead them forms their sense of worth. If we can discipline with kindness, staying on their side, not pitting ourselves against them, our child will continue to feel valued even when they are being corrected.

Emphasize their value apart from their achievements

It’s natural to celebrate when our children succeed at something. We need to take extra effort to celebrate them for who they are, not only what they do. Stopping throughout the day to extend affection, or just telling your child, I love you for who you are, can make a huge impact on how your child feels valued. 

Weed out perfectionism in your own heart and life.

You will hear me say over and over, more is caught than taught. We are the role models in our children’s lives. How we do things shows them how things are done. So, if we struggle with perfectionism, our children will see that modeling and pick up on it. 

We may push ourselves and our child to keep things excessively tidy, or to pursue the top spot in sports or academics, or to always behave in ways that are beyond reproach. Just know our perfectionistic standards can be contagious and do far more damage than any communicable disease. Letting ourselves off the hook will naturally let our children have more freedom to be human as well. 

Share verses that show off the unconditional love of God. 

God’s word is powerful and active. When we take in verses that remind us of His unchanging love, our spirits are impacted. We can share verses like these to help our children embrace the way God delights in them and loves them beyond their behavior. Our children can learn that their behavior is a thank you to a gracious and merciful God, not a prerequisite to His love (or ours). 

Romans 8:1

Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

Zeph 3:17

The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing.

Romans 5:10

For if, while we were God’s enemies, we were reconciled to Him through the death of his Son, how much more, having been reconciled, shall we be saved through his life!

Psalm 103: 2-4

Praise the Lord, my soul, and forget not all his benefits—who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion

And, we don’t simply share these verses, or have our children memorize them. We need to explain the meanings behind the words and help our children comprehend the goodness of a God who loves them because He chose to make them just as they are. 

No Perfect Parents

One last thought: We will fail as we try to show our children their worth. Our tempers might flare. We may become impatient.

At times we will emphasize performance. We might forget to show our children how valued they are for who they are.

Helping our children overcome perfection isn’t going to come through our perfect parenting. (Ironic, huh?) We aim for what’s best and meet our children’s four basic needs as often and completely as we can.

When we botch things up, God steps in and fills in the blanks.

So, do your best, and know you’ll be human along the way.

When you fail as a parent, apologize, own your mistake, and start fresh. 

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The post Five Simple Ways Keep Your Child from Falling Into the Trap of Perfectionism appeared first on Patty H. Scott.