This first excerpt is from my novel Loving Edits which released June 14 and is now available in either ebook or paperback format at www.dreamspinnerpress.com It’s a m/m/m romance about three men who celebrate the joys and sorrow of true love while exploring the human spirit. Here’s a preview of a scene where Mick meets Tono for the first time.

Mick had been at the bar Vergara with one hand wrapped around a wine glass and the other reaching for a pintxo, when he looked up as Tono walked in with a few friends. The attraction was instant and powerful; Tono had ventured forward to flirt with the dazzling man whose stunning eyes drew him like twin magnets.

When he realized that Mick wasn’t Spanish, he tripped over the English words but managed to communicate his interest. He’d been delighted to find out that Mick was the famous American author rumored to be in the area. Tono had read Mick’s bestseller because he was an avid reader, and the book had been marketed heavily in Europe. He’d enjoyed it immensely and couldn’t believe his good fortune in finding out that Mick was not only gorgeous, he was gay, and, more importantly, attracted to him as well.

He’d had the distinct pleasure of introducing the American to his first Jai alai game. Mick was quickly engaged by the ambiance of the fronton, which seethed with people in a highly charged competitive atmosphere. Bookies darted back and forth, with wads of cash in their hands, collecting bets, or paying the winners. The crowd knew each pelotari and shouted out words of encouragement to their favorites to spur them on, hooting when they bested their opponent, or booing loudly when they dropped a ball. The players were dressed in white trousers with colored sashes around their waist, instead of belts, and numbers were embroidered on their shirts to identify them. The loud thwack the ball made when it hit the concrete was an audible reminder of the strength and stamina each man needed to hurl it back and forth with lightning speed. Tono was the best looking and the fastest man on the court. His fans were loudly supportive and screamed each time he scored. The sport was different, exciting, and the enthusiasm of the audience contagious; it was an adrenalin rush Mick had never experienced before.

Tono had shown off that night, and the payoff was huge, not only financially, but in the look of wonder and respect that lit up Mick’s face as soon as they got together after the game. It was the first night they had sex; a sweet joining of bodies that went beyond the ordinary mechanics. The slow exploration awakened feelings Mick had left behind with Paul, surprising them both with a love connection neither man had expected.

Mick and Tono became inseparable, finding so much more in common than sex. They shared a love of adventure, travel, history, and most surprisingly, poetry. They spent hours in bed reading poems and making love, only leaving the comfort of their room to take long walks along the Paseo de Zurriola, the path near the cliffs of San Sebastian, overlooking the magnificent harbor. Although Mick had shared much with Paul, their literary tastes were very different. Tono was a romantic like him, believing in love and happy endings. He leaned toward books that had the potential for a good outcome, something Paul shied away from.

They’d traveled to small villages that dotted the coast. Fishing continued to be a large part of Basque industry, and the variety of marine life, abundant in the waters surrounding the area, had been a source of income for generations. Tono’s father and uncles who were fishermen, and one of them owned an anchovy-canning factory. He’d given Mick the grand tour of the fetid building, insisting that fresh anchovy bested canned any day. Mick had to acknowledge that he’d never tasted anything quite as good as the tiny, but very salty green fish, and he’d come to love the flavor. He watched Tono the first time, placing a spoonful of fresh, olive oil-infused tuna on a slice of French bread, topping it with three fresh anchovies garnished with a spicy green pepper. Mick had become addicted to this delicacy; in fact, he’d become quite the connoisseur when it came to pintxos, also known as tapas, the amazing finger food served in varying ways in the north of Spain. Undoubtedly, they were all over the country, but the bars receiving the highest Michelin ratings were in San Sebastian.

Tono Garat, Mick had learned, was the Michael Jordan of his sport. They were followed around by young boys wanting an autograph and hoping to learn a thing or two by being in Tono’s shadow. Regardless of which town they had visited, Tono was a celebrity, and soon, Mick became as well known― the gringo writer who dazzled everyone with his welcoming smile.

One of the places they had visited was Guernica, the historical town founded in the fourteenth century, proud symbol of Basque freedom. Tono tried to explain his people, and their fierce need to remain autonomous, and independent of any ruling body but their own, sometimes carrying this need to the extreme. Tono manifested this same spirit, proving on many different occasions that he was his own person, and never intimidated by others. Even his love for poetry was a source of pride, not shame, and he would stare down anyone who had the audacity to think any less of him because of his romantic tendencies. He didn’t flaunt his sexual orientation, in deference to his parents’ and his fans’ sensibilities, but he wouldn’t have lied if asked pointblank. Still, he chose to remain in the closet and the few friends who wer aware of the truth didn’t discuss it; he was a local celebrity, rewarded with respect and privacy.

Mick had been intent on tasting, smelling, and hearing everything that Spain had to offer. Tono had learned to love his country all over again, seeing it with fresh eyes; the sights and sounds he’d taken for granted were revisited. Every food group was explored, starting with the staple, tortilla de patata, the potato omelet found in every bar in the country, to the odd-looking, almost prehistoric, percebes, the shellfish with long bodies resembling goosenecks and a foot at the bottom used to attach themselves to rocks. They were exceedingly fishy, an acquired taste both men found repugnant. The music, the flamenco dancers, the bullfights, the wine, and the museums were so much a part of their daily repertoire, it was a wonder Mick had found any time to write at all. But he did, every morning for a few hours, while Tono slept.