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    Loving Is Good
    Loving Is Good
    Loving Is Good
    Ebook87 pages1 hour

    Loving Is Good

    By Brenda Moguez

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Celia Mendoza is not living La Vida Loca. She put her graduate studies on hold after her father died. Now she dishes out advice in her e-zine column, Luna Love, Loving is Good. The problem is she hasn’t had a second date or a kiss in over a year. Then Gabe Mercer, a modern-day Adonis, shows up, daring her to take a chance. The string of broken hearts in his wake turns Celia off, but his relentless encouragement to pursue her dream of becoming a serious journalist contradicts his reputation, making it hard to fight the pull of his topaz, come-hither eyes. He’s everything Luna Love tells her readers to take a chance on, but Celia can’t decide if a chance encounter is worth the gamble. But life has a will of its own, and hers is pushing Celia to accept the uncertainty and run toward her destiny.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherThe Wild Rose Press
    Release dateAug 6, 2014
    ISBN9781628304398
    Loving Is Good

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      Book preview

      Loving Is Good - Brenda Moguez

      Inc.

      Loving Is Good

      by

      Brenda Moguez

      Luna Love Series, Book One

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

      Loving Is Good

      COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Brenda Moguez

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

      Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

      Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

      The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

      PO Box 708

      Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

      Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

      Publishing History

      First Sweetheart Rose Edition, 2014

      Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-439-8

      Luna Love Series, Book One

      Published in the United States of America

      Dedication

      With love and gratitude

      to my functionally insane family,

      Mike, Caitlin, Max, Nana, Judy, Megan,

      and Billy Bucks.

      Chapter One

      Dear Luna, Life is not going to plan.

      Celia Mendoza! Mom roared in a tone used by drill sergeants during basic training.

      The smell of freshly diced onions and garlic filled the kitchen. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs my stomach grumbled before my mind reacted. I ate earlier, but an onion sweating in olive oil had the same effect on me as bacon sizzling on a griddle.

      What? I used the whiny and exaggerated voice, definitely my you’re bugging me tone. I knew she’d give me grief. It didn’t matter how old I was, she continued to instruct me as if I were still five years old. The wind off the Santa Barbara coastline zipped through the house, rattling the screen door until it bounced against the doorjamb. It pulled my attention from the computer, which sat atop the kitchen table where I parked myself every day. I had a deadline looming, not that it mattered to Mom.

      Don’t yell. How many times have I told you, yelling is for sporting events. You’re not a street urchin anymore. Would it kill you to act with poise and grace?

      She stood facing the kitchen counter, focused on the onions browning in the skillet. I listened to her muttering in Spanish, her go-to language when she wasn’t behaving like a grand matron.

      I can hear you, you know. Did you want something? The whingy pitch in my voice lingered, which I hoped she missed, but at least I didn’t say what.

      That’s better. Your aunt’s on her way over to pick us up. We have to leave soon, or we won’t get a good parking spot. Her voice was sweet, with a hint of General Patton.

      A command hidden under a thin veil of lovingness was the weapon of choice for a Latina matriarch. In most Latin families, there was only one head of the household. Even if the man was a throwback to the Dark Age—man was king and machismo was the new black—it was the woman who ruled. All Latin women were skilled, from the time they learned to walk, in how to control with a look, a subtle falsifying of scripture, and truth. They were experts at emotional manipulation, but their greatest weapon and tool of choice was their tone. An octave up or down could mean the difference between yes, hell no, or not while I’m alive. Mom’s General Patton command was firm.

      You and Tia Jo go ahead. I’ll drive over later. My voice was borderline definite with a hint of wobble, as only a Latina matriarch in training wheels could be, but I’d lose respect if I didn’t lobby my case. The edict sailed through my lips and landed with a thud on the tile floor.

      That’s what you said last time, but you never showed up. You left us hanging. We had a hell of a time keeping up with the dinner crowd. We need you there. General Patton with a steel edge, wielding guilt with a dash of emotion.

      I have to finish something. I promise I’ll be there.

      I knew I didn’t have a chance, but I wasn’t going to back down. One thing about Latin women is that we learn from the best, our mothers. Even when we are fighting a lost cause we fight anyway. It’s a point of pride. If I were to back down and give in to her too soon, Mom would be more annoyed. So I volleyed.

      I don’t trust you. She dropped the frying pan into dishwater, which sent water splashing over the edges.

      I lifted my head from the monitor of my laptop and made eye contact for the first time since we’d started bantering. She had turned to face me and leaned against the red granite counter, which blended nicely with the terra cotta colored walls and bleached pine table. I continued sparring, feeling smug with the round table between us. The score was still nil-nil, but I was waiting for her kill shot.

      I’m a journalist, remember. I work for a living, I argued.

      She took a sip from the water bottle she carried around with her all the time and gave me the evil eye—the deathly blow delivered. I folded. It was her proven intimidation technique, and it melted me into submission every time. My dad was never able to fight or counter her arguments after she delivered the look. It wasn’t as if she turned into Linda Blair. Her wide eyes narrowed and become hyper-focused on the target, like the red laser from a gun a shifty underworld character carried. The smile she normally wore dissolved. Helpless under the heat-penetrating glare, her victims—usually me—caved.

      "How does writing Dear Luna Love, Loving Is Good classify you as a journalist?"

      Knowing she won the first battle, she eased into a playful tease just to see if she could rile me. Poking fun was a form of affection with her. All hint of the wartime general was gone.

      "It’s a column in the Santa Barbara Daily Journal, which they pay me to write. Ipso facto, I’m a journalist."

      It wasn’t what I thought I’d be doing after graduation, but hell would have to freeze over before I admitted that to my mother, whom I loved dearly but just not at that moment. I’d wanted to write human-interest pieces, or at least something that packed a punch and made a difference, but that was another secret I kept from Mom.

      Remind me again why I bankrolled four years at Stanford? she asked rhetorically.

      There was never

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