Excerpt from Tinsel and Tatas: "Last one Gets the Booby Prize"
Do you remember last year's Jingle Balls anthology? The one that benefited testicular cancer? Me and seventeen other award-winning, bestselling rom-com authors are back with a new holiday anthology. We're teaming up to sell #Books4Boobs.
This collection of holiday shorts ranges from sweet to steamy and promises to entertain. 100% of proceeds will benefit the Young Survival Coalition, an international organization focusing on women ages 40 and under who are diagnosed with breast cancer. All stories can be read as standalones. Best of all, the anthology is being sold for just $0.99 for a limited time. https://amzn.to/3DeLVWAPick up your copy now!
An Excerpt from My Story, Last one Gets the Booby Prize!
Context: In this scene, celebrity chef Cella Dawes has just found out she's on the hook to compete in a celebrity curling competition. Yes, that curling. As in, the winter olympic sport 🥌
Cella
“It could be worse,” Max called the platitude over his left shoulder from where he sat at the desk, paging through the binder which—bafflingly—had been meant for Cella to take. It contained an astonishing amount of information. To Wiley’s credit, it was helpfully tabbed out, with section after section containing details about The Coalition, about the resort and its amenities, and about the multi-day event and their suddenly very-full week.
“How?” she demanded. “How could it be worse?”
Cella was splayed out on their luxurious California King, laying flat and flopped down and—for the most part—staring at the ceiling beams above. Their late lunch had stretched out to nearly 4 PM. The western border of their room—another wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling window that ran the length of the suite—proved the sun was setting. The early hour they’d left North Carolina, plus the long flight, heavy meal and darkening sky should have called Cella to sleep. But she was too busy side-eyeing Max at the desk and glaring just a little at his calm, trying hard not to catastrophize.
She’d had high hopes for their time in Mammoth, had been dreaming about a day at the spa, mornings spent sleeping in and all kinds of sexy times with Max. They lived by the beach, but he was built like he’d been made for the mountains. Being together in the snow was proving just how much she liked him in boots and flannel shirts, how much the evergreens brought out his juniper eyes, and how much she approved of his winter beard.
Her first order of business had been to book—for tomorrow—a full day for both of them at the spa. But how could she relax if she had to compete in a sporting event that she had barely heard of and never even watched on TV? How could either of them? They were on deck to compete as a pair.
It wasn’t that Cella didn’t enjoy sports. She enjoyed them just fine—from a sky box, with hors d’oeuvres and a drink in her hand. She didn’t play any single sport, but stayed fit by riding her bike in and out of town and walking with Max and their beagle, Cujo, on the beach.
As it turned out, the Olympics angle was a fundraising tactic—a bonus feature for big donors who weren’t just coming and staying for gala night. They’d thought up a perk for donors who had given at least $50,000 that year. The Olympic-style winter games would let them compete alongside the gala’s celebrity headliners.
“We could’ve been assigned to worse sports.” Max looked over his shoulder. “Like biathlon or ice luge. Hey! They’ve got snowboarding. Looks like Shaun White’s gonna be here.”
Cella blinked over at Max like he was insane.
“Shaun White won three gold medals. In half-pipe. At the Olympics.”
“True,” Max agreed. “But you’ve got a Michelin Star.”
He threw her the exact kind of smile that told her how intent he was on buttering her up.
“Besides…” He turned his attention back to the binder. “It looks like they’re going to give us a coach for our event.”
Cella stared back at the ceiling, feeling—already—that her spa day was drifting away. The event was in four days, and she’d be full steam in the kitchen for at least two. And there was no way to compete in the curling event without several hours of prep on the ice.
“How did Keri miss this?” she asked the ceiling.
Max took too long to answer. It caused Cella to turn her head and look back down her chin, toward where he sat at the desk. Next to the binder, Max had out her iPad and had been scanning her email for the answer to exactly that.
“Keri didn’t miss anything, babe. You did.”
Cella generally didn’t like pouting like a petulant teenager. Cella also didn’t generally get a week at a time off, nor was she generally in such sore need of a break. Between Thanksgiving and all the catering logistics that came in around holiday time for private parties, she was burnt out. So much so that it did seem plausible that she had received an informative email and simply skimmed.
“Alright.” Cella rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes, then dragged herself upright in bed. “Then come over here and read me the primer. What are the rules of the game and how, exactly, does one curl?”
If he left the desk and came to her right then, Cella could tuck herself into her favorite spot in the crook of his arm and listen to his calm baritone as he explained. Before long, if she played her energy right, she might coax him away from the binder and interest him in far better things.
“Just let me rinse off. We’ve been traveling all day. And you know I don’t like putting a dirty body in a clean bed.”
Cella did know that. She also knew there was no such thing as Max “just rinsing off.” He was a thorough and epic shower-taker who came out so fresh-smelling and squeaky clean that she couldn’t even be mad at his ritual. By the time he emerged twenty minutes later, Cella was fast asleep.
#
“You’re doing great, babe.”
Cella was absolutely not doing great, despite what seemed to be quite adequate coaching. Max telling her she was doing better than she was actually doing was one reason why she loved him.
“You’re coming up to the line, so just let it go,” came the reassuring but confident voice of Trisha, their coach. Tricia was middle aged and shorter than Cella’s five-foot-nine, with sandy blonde hair and pale blue eyes. Some years ago, Tricia had been a curling champion—a three-time medalist competing for Ireland. In Cella’s opinion, the celebrity contender for the games ought to have been her.
With her fist gripped solidly on the handle of the stone, Cella tried to let go for the twelfth time—“tried” because letting go of a forty-two-pound weight while crouched on the ice was harder than it seemed. The weight itself was a stabilizing force given the low pitch position, making the act of letting go of the stone necessarily unstabilizing. The much taller Max had made his own attempts at pitching earlier, but his long limbs and lack of flexibility had gotten in the way. They’d all come to the conclusion that—in addition to taking up yoga at home for his own benefit—Cella, who could at least touch her toes, was a far better bet.
“You got it this time,” Max cheered from just in front of her and off to the left side. She didn’t “got it” from a stay-on-her-feet perspective, but the stone floated straight. That was a victory over the previous time, when she’d both rolled to the side upon pitching the stone while the stone itself had veered off to two o’clock. Few things were less graceful than falling when you were already practically on the ground.
Cella’s hip ached and her butt was numb from so much falling and her hands were a little cold. She was getting too good at picking herself up off of the ice. This time, she didn’t even try. Not because her pride (or her poor backside) was too injured—because it was too fun watching the shuffling slide of Max’s feet as he bent and flexed his arms at hummingbird wing speed to create friction on the ice with his broom.
The object of the game was to get the stone as close as possible to a target in the distance, a bullseye on the ice called a “house.” Cella could get a running (read: sliding) start to pitch it but had to let go once she reached a line in the ice. Much curling involved four-player teams but Cella and Max were playing mixed doubles. Max’s job was to smooth the path by warming the surface, reducing friction in a way that made the rock curl less and, therefore, move straighter.
“Alright,” Trish said kindly. “I think you’ve both earned your lunch. Really good job this morning.”
Trying not to show her relief at being off the hook, Cella reached out to take Trish’s proffered hand, not at all feeling confident that she would be an elegant curler or to remotely make herself or the organization look good, but still more willing to curl for the cause.
“Seriously, thank you. Your instruction was great. You explained the game really clearly and I feel a lot more confident now—definitely more confident than I felt this morning.”
“Yeah,” Max echoed, still a bit winded from all that broom work, but sticking out his own hand to shake, which only took Cella’s thoughts to how his forearms had gripped and flexed as he’d worked his broom. “We really appreciate the primer.”
“I love that positive attitude.” Trish nodded with an approving smile, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I’ve taught curling to a lot of celebrities, and you should see what babies some of them are. But I’ve watched your show before.” She turned to Cella. “I had a hunch you’d be one of the good ones.”
Cella chuckled. It wasn’t the first time she’d been informed with surprise and delight that she was more down to earth than some other celebrities.
“So we’ll see you on the ice for the competition, I’m guessing…” Max chimed in, in a voice that told Cella he was getting hangry.
“Oh, I’ll see you before then,” Tricia returned, issuing Max a hearty slap on his back. “Morning practice was just to cover the basic rules of the game and straight pitching. I saved target practice for the afternoon.”
A Note about Last One Gets the Booby Prize
Did you recognize anyone familiar? If you’re a longtime reader, you’ve seen Cella and Max, my couple from The Secret Ingredient featured in this story. It takes place some time between the last chapter of that book and the epilogue. If you’ve read it, you know why. But don’t worry. Check out the FAQs below to hear about whether you need to have read The Secret Ingredient to enjoy Last One Gets the Booby Prize!
Frequently Asked Questions
Q: Who are the characters in Last One Gets the Booby Prize? Are they connected to a previous story of yours?
A: Cella and Max, the stars of my small-town romance, The Secret Ingredient, are the characters in Last One Gets the Booby Prize! I’ve written a holiday story for them! Cella is a celebrity chef. Max is a doctor and a major foodie who knows how to cook and who likes helping Cella in the kitchen!
Q: Crap! I haven’t read The Secret Ingredient! Can I still read Last One Gets the Booby Prize?
A: First of all, why haven’t you read The Secret Ingredient? Secondly, ALL the stories in Last One Gets the Booby Prize can be read as standalones. So don’t worry about any of that. Just settle in for holiday fun!
Q: Why should I pick up a copy of Tinsel and Tatas right this second?
A: So many reasons. Soooo many. First of all, this is a limited edition release, which means we’ll take it down soon, just like we took down Jingle Balls and it will never be released again. Nevvah. Secondly, by supporting it early on, it will continue to rank retailer sites like Amazon, Apple, Barnes and Noble and Kobo. If it continues to rank on these sites, more readers will discover it on their own. If more readers discover it on their own, we will be able to raise more money for the Young Survival Coalition. Remember, none of the authors who wrote for the anthology are doing it for profit. 100% of proceeds will go to breast cancer.