Book Haven discussion

My upcoming thriller is Overkill. I won't tell you what it's about -- not yet -- but I would like to share with you how I use cooking in my books. When I write romance, a scene where the lovers cook together greatly enhances that warmth and the feeling of being home. When I write a thriller, a cooking scene helps to soften the rough edges, so you relax for a moment and prepare yourself for the next edge-of-your-seat twist. My dear friend and USA Today bestselling author Aaron Paul Lazar, who is a great nature photographer and cook, shared this great recipe with me--

A scene inspired by soup? Yes! It's an Overkill

Up to this point, I’ve considered myself lucky for renting this dilapidated beach house for next to nothing. Because of its quaint charm, I’ve overlooked some of its flaws. Now, too late.
Undeniably, there it is. The smell.
It hits me at the worst possible moment, when Ma rings the doorbell—it croaks—and I open the door—it creaks—feeling reluctant to lean on her, knowing that her love may push me back over the edge, it may turn me into a child.
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It’s not immediately that I notice the smell

Why is he wasting his time—at the risk of being identified, or even caught—on an empty car, when all around us, juicier targets come into his view?
The first police patrol car tears around the intersection, lights and sirens screaming. It screeches to a halt. A second car follows suit, then a third. Officers file out of both of them, weapons drawn.
Would he shoot at them?

Would he shoot at them?


#thriller free on #KU

I crane my neck into the hole, then swing my legs into it. On the other side, I clasp the rail of the spiral staircase, trying not to make it clang as I climb onto the first step. Now, I perk my ears. In the murky space swirling around me, there it is: an eerie echo, reverberating. Someone is upstairs right now. His voice is low, but from time to time it screeches up to a high pitch, which is horribly familiar--

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Terror bites my stomach

In the midst of all this clamor, it’s such a relief to see Michael cut through the crowd, rush over to the ambulance and hop into it, an incredibly huge bouquet of roses in his hand.
I can’t help but wonder out loud, “While I was in danger, you stopped to buy flowers?”
“I practically snatched them from a flower stand while running through the airport—”
“Don’t apologize, Michael, I just love you for it.”
“Oh, Ash,” he says. “I hear you came to a gunfight armed with scissors.”
I try to lift my head from the gurney but immediately stop, wincing in pain.“Somehow, I came out on top.”
Michael leans in closer and smells my hair, parts of which have been singed by the fire. “I know you just enough to hold back from holding you back,” he says, in his softest voice. “I’ll never ever tell you to stay out of trouble.”
He touches the tip of his nose to mine, ever so gently. Only then do I start crying.
And I can’t stop.
I don’t even know why I’m crying, but I have no choice but let the tears come, let them wash away the anxiety of the last few days and the fear. It seems to persist beyond the death of the shooter.