19 WEEKS PREGNANT BABY SIZE

Candy Store (Contemporary Romance)

On the verge of losing her candy store, Callie Moore decides to blot out her troubles with a tall, dark, handsome stranger. Derek McNear isn't about to turn down a cute, curvy woman offering sizzling-hot sex at his best friend's wedding reception. But the next day, when Callie discovers that Derek is the consultant she has hired to save her store, they find it difficult to concentrate on business. Especially when giving and getting pleasure in each other's arms is so much more fun!

*** SPECIAL BONUS CONTENT! Excerpts from THE LOOK OF LOVE and FROM THIS MOMENT ON - the first 2 books in the fun and sexy Sullivan series. ***

* * *

Contemporary romances by Bella Andre:
The Sullivans: The Look of Love (#1), From This Moment On (#2)
Bad Boys of Football series: Game For Anything, Game For Seduction, Game for Love
Take Me series: Take Me, Love Me
Candy Store
Ecstasy
Bound By Love
Shooting Stars
Red Hot Reunion
Tempt Me, Taste Me, Touch Me
Hotshot Firefighter Series: Wild Heat, Hot As Sin, Never Too Hot

* * *

EXCERPT:
Callie heard a noise in the hall and looked up through the thick, frosted glass of the commercial refrigerator. A tall man in a tux was standing just outside the door.

She tried to push herself back further into the shelves, hoping that her dark pink dress would help her to blend in with the crates of supplies. Maybe if she didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, didn’t even breathe, she could be left in peace with her memory of the taste of his skin and the beating of his heart on her lips.

Callie had spent the past ten minutes rubbing the goose bumps on her arms and trying to convince herself that she had had enough of Derek. But now that he was standing only feet from her—somehow she had known all along that he would find her and now he had—it was all she could do not to fling the door open, pull him inside the cramped space with her, and rip his clothes off.

At the same time, an annoying inner voice of reason was telling Callie there was no point to giving in to her baser needs. One night of mind-blowing sex wasn’t going to help anything. It wasn’t going to save her business.

And it wasn’t going to save her pathetic love life.

Although, she thought with a small upturn of her lips, it was guaranteed to be fun.

The doorknob turned and in the dim light of the refrigerator, Derek’s warm voice wrapped around her.

“I thought I might find you in here.”

Callie was both alarmed and aroused by his presence, by the way he filled up the room with his essence. The crazy mix of feelings made it hard for her to speak. Again.

“I, uh…” she said as he stepped into the refrigerated space with her.

He closed the door behind him with a soft but definite click, never once taking his eyes from her. His voice laced with humor, he said, “There’s no lock, but at least it’s private. We’ll just have to hope no one needs any milk.”

“Actually, I was looking for the milk, for, um, coffee for the reception.” Picking up a carton of milk, she said, “So now that I’ve found it, I…”

Derek took a step towards her and Callie, who felt as if she was the lioness being hunted by a needy lion, dropped the carton of milk on the floor. It broke open and spilled onto her shoes, but she hardly noticed the wet splash of milk.

All she could feel was his heat, as if he was drawing him to her via some sort of sexual infrared.

She could try all day, all week, all year, to tell herself she didn’t want what he was offering her. But it would never stop being a lie. Because she did need it. Because she did need him.

Desperately.

He pinned her against the shelves with one arm on either side of her. “You weren’t looking for milk,” he said, his voice husky, a breath away from her lips. “You were looking for this.”

And then he kissed her.

On the verge of losing her candy store, Callie Moore decides to blot out her troubles with a tall, dark, handsome stranger. Derek McNear isn't about to turn down a cute, curvy woman offering sizzling-hot sex at his best friend's wedding reception. But the next day, when Callie discovers that Derek is the consultant she has hired to save her store, they find it difficult to concentrate on business. Especially when giving and getting pleasure in each other's arms is so much more fun!

*** SPECIAL BONUS CONTENT! Excerpts from THE LOOK OF LOVE and FROM THIS MOMENT ON - the first 2 books in the fun and sexy Sullivan series. ***

* * *

Contemporary romances by Bella Andre:
The Sullivans: The Look of Love (#1), From This Moment On (#2)
Bad Boys of Football series: Game For Anything, Game For Seduction, Game for Love
Take Me series: Take Me, Love Me
Candy Store
Ecstasy
Bound By Love
Shooting Stars
Red Hot Reunion
Tempt Me, Taste Me, Touch Me
Hotshot Firefighter Series: Wild Heat, Hot As Sin, Never Too Hot

* * *

EXCERPT:
Callie heard a noise in the hall and looked up through the thick, frosted glass of the commercial refrigerator. A tall man in a tux was standing just outside the door.

She tried to push herself back further into the shelves, hoping that her dark pink dress would help her to blend in with the crates of supplies. Maybe if she didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, didn’t even breathe, she could be left in peace with her memory of the taste of his skin and the beating of his heart on her lips.

Callie had spent the past ten minutes rubbing the goose bumps on her arms and trying to convince herself that she had had enough of Derek. But now that he was standing only feet from her—somehow she had known all along that he would find her and now he had—it was all she could do not to fling the door open, pull him inside the cramped space with her, and rip his clothes off.

At the same time, an annoying inner voice of reason was telling Callie there was no point to giving in to her baser needs. One night of mind-blowing sex wasn’t going to help anything. It wasn’t going to save her business.

And it wasn’t going to save her pathetic love life.

Although, she thought with a small upturn of her lips, it was guaranteed to be fun.

The doorknob turned and in the dim light of the refrigerator, Derek’s warm voice wrapped around her.

“I thought I might find you in here.”

Callie was both alarmed and aroused by his presence, by the way he filled up the room with his essence. The crazy mix of feelings made it hard for her to speak. Again.

“I, uh…” she said as he stepped into the refrigerated space with her.

He closed the door behind him with a soft but definite click, never once taking his eyes from her. His voice laced with humor, he said, “There’s no lock, but at least it’s private. We’ll just have to hope no one needs any milk.”

“Actually, I was looking for the milk, for, um, coffee for the reception.” Picking up a carton of milk, she said, “So now that I’ve found it, I…”

Derek took a step towards her and Callie, who felt as if she was the lioness being hunted by a needy lion, dropped the carton of milk on the floor. It broke open and spilled onto her shoes, but she hardly noticed the wet splash of milk.

All she could feel was his heat, as if he was drawing him to her via some sort of sexual infrared.

She could try all day, all week, all year, to tell herself she didn’t want what he was offering her. But it would never stop being a lie. Because she did need it. Because she did need him.

Desperately.

He pinned her against the shelves with one arm on either side of her. “You weren’t looking for milk,” he said, his voice husky, a breath away from her lips. “You were looking for this.”

And then he kissed her.

By Rebecca Tabor Armstrong

We took our tea on a patch of grass beneath the shade of the changing leaves that clung to oak branches and stretched up into the October sky. It tasted of wild flowers and pebbles and dirt, but I agreed to another cup when she offered it and watched with delight as her tiny fingers poured a second helping of imagination. My eyes kept to her fingertips and I continued watching as the invisible liquid spilled down her small hands, washing over the modest bits of the afternoon that were trapped beneath her fingernails.

When we finished our tea, she dug her hands into the earth and sifted through the dry soil, uprooting weeds and insects and other buried treasures. Her bare toes meandered in the uncut grass, the soles of her feet stained with the green remnants of summer. She sang a made-up, off-key tune to a scattered melody and drifted away into the lazy autumn afternoon, further into one of the imaginative endeavors of the childhood that she invited me to join her in.

Makayla wants to be a princess when she grows up, at which time she would like to be called “Mary Poppins.” She told me earnestly in her deep voice very matter-of-factly as though she was telling me the color of the sky or how many letters are in the alphabet (although she claims there are two hundred seventy-two). Her sister, Cheyenne, wants to be the person who blows up all the balloons that amble about the ceilings of grocery stores and gas stations.

She thinks that they are blown by mouth, which she views as a gloriously splendid vocation, and I haven’t yet told her that her aspiration is neither a profession nor done with breath. I want her to keep her dream as long as she can before the cruelty of the world steals it away from her. I don’t want her to know yet that adulthood has a vicious way of tainting youth’s ambitions – that a would-be airline pilot will settle for a position as a bank teller, that the kid that once dreamed of saving lives will end up bagging groceries, and that her beautifully romantic ideas about balloons and ribbon are nothing more than rusty helium tanks, cheap latex and minimum wage.

When the girls asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I told them that I was already grown up and that I still wasn’t entirely sure yet. Their little lips parted in astonishment and they began to make a game out of suggesting what I might decide to be – astronaut? baby doctor? lion tamer? fudge-maker? – and Makayla offered to relinquish her position as princess to me once she became queen. (I can take over the name “Mary Poppins” as well, as she would like to be referred to as “The Little Mermaid,” or “Mermy” for short, upon assuming the new position.) Cheyenne told me that I must not be grown up yet since I didn’t know what I wanted to be in life, and when I told her that I was indeed a grown-up, she asked me how I knew for certain.

When I was her age, I believed that one day I would wake up and just somehow know that I was all grown up. But it happens more slowly than that. The transition transpires little by little over time, so gradually that one hardly notices.

I also used to believe that becoming an adult meant leaving who you were as a child behind to become someone else, and I even spent a few years trying on different personalities to see which one fit best. Eventually I realized that I had become nothing more exciting than the person I started out as. Maybe it was in that realization that I became an adult for the first time.

I wanted to tell her that she’ll spend the rest of her life becoming an adult – that she’ll never really get there – and that the person she’ll become as a grown-up is merely a continuation of the person she is now as a child. She’ll always be her, just a different version of herself. And all the same insecurities and weaknesses and fears that she struggles with now will still be with her, she’ll just get better at pretending that they aren’t.

But I knew she wouldn’t understand.

I didn’t even understand.

She’d have time enough to figure these things out for herself and I was too content living vicariously through their inexperience to pollute it with my perspicacity, so I grabbed a shovel and helped Makayla dig further into the fantastical phantasms of her youth of which I enjoyed so dearly.

She faded between her scattered songs and silly chatter as she told me her plans to remove the training wheels from her bicycle sometime soon. I reached down and stole one of the dandelions from her small collection of afternoon treasures and slid it behind her ear between blonde tendrils, and she beamed up at me and giggled for no apparent reason. I envied the easiness of her life in that moment.

When the afternoon reached its height and the sun began to bear down on us, the dandelion began to wane, drooping against her sweaty cheek. Makayla dug her hands into the earth and sifted through the wet soil. Her bare toes meandered in blades of grass, the soles of her f

Five "egg-beater" hand drills.
These represent an intermediate step
between the little Yankee & the big breast drills.
They see the most use
and are the easiest to find.

A lot of them have caps
on the end of the handle that unscrew
so you can store bits in the handle.
The second drill from the left
still had its original bits
when I got it
so I have refrained from using them.

These exhibit one of the things about
late 19th, early 20th century manufactured goods
that interests me
- the bright colors and unnecessary flourishes
of the drive wheels.
The drill all the way to the right would be stronger
and easier to make
and presumably faster to make as well,
although it uses more material.
Yet the majority of drills
were made like the others.
Was this early marketing
- "If it looks like the circus it will sell better"
or something else?
The dominant taste of the times or
an unconscious pride in craftsmanship?

Anyway there are two Millers Falls #2,
a Goodell Pratt # 5 1/2
a small Yankee 1435 all the way to the right
and a small Millers Falls next to that.

"Hand Drill" is one of those phrases
that makes me smirk, kinda like "Baby Oil" -
They're not meant to make holes in hands
but doubtless they have at one time or another