Faking Lucky Book Tour & Giveaway

The
lovable, creative and quirky heroine tackles these challenges. AsDesdemona tries to run damage control on her reputation, she begins
to explore her sexuality. Along the way, she will get a second chance
at genuine love.

Q.
D. loves her rescued puppy, red wine, running through sprinklers,
dark chocolate with sugared ginger, and anything wrapped in a corn
tortilla. Her prized possessions include a hot pink Christmas tree
and a garden full of okra and basil.

She
hasn’t decided what she’ll be when she grows up, but whatever it
is will be filled with romantic impossibilities.

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Chapter 1

So I’m home alone on Saturday night in my flannel PJs, relaxed on my denim sofa, eating
fudge and brazil nuts, and channel surfing. Jewelry channel—maybe a flashy gem would jazz up
my life. Gag—tonight it’s cameos. Sex in the City—I bet they all faked it, even Samantha.
Marriage Exposure—where do they find people who will go on television and argue about their
sex lives?
Wait.
I don’t believe my eyes. It looks like Burt on Marriage Exposure. I raise the volume and
edge closer to the screen. It is him, the same reddish-brown hair and sharp features. He’s even
wearing his favorite green-striped polo shirt. I haven’t seen him in a year, and he’s wearing that
same shirt. The short-haired woman sitting next to him has her hands covering her face. She’s
wailing something like, “You never loved me! You never loved me!”
It can’t be. Burt’s in an L-word relationship? I edge closer to the screen, hardly breathing.
Burt pulls at the back of his neck with one hand, the way he always does when he’s
stressed, and looks down toward his feet. “I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t love you.”
Unbelievable. He’s married to her.
She uncovers her red, puffy face and leans close to him. “You never loved me.” Spit flies
out with her words. “You’ve always loved…” She gives a big, gasping sob and then slowly,
distinctly blurts out my name. “…Desdemona. With…with…her beautiful dark eyes. Her perfect
body. Her incredible piano playing.” More spit with the p’s. “Her long, thick raven hair.” She
raises both hands to her head and pulls at her brownish spikes.
No. I must have misheard.

2
But she repeats my name, dragging out each syllable as if it causes her physical pain.
“Des…de…mon…a.”
Could Burt have dated another Desdemona?
Something mushes between my toes. Fudge under my foot oozes out onto my creamy-
white lamb’s-wool throw, which is now on the floor. I must have stood when she wailed my
name. Brazil nuts are all over the floor.
Burt takes her by the shoulders. “Jenny, no.” He always was considerate of everyone’s
feelings. “I could never love Desdemona. She…she’s a freak. She fakes orgasms.”
A crazy giggle snakes its way up from my chest. Is this really happening? How could he
have known? Guys can’t really tell, can they? The giggle morphs into a nauseated groan. Am I
dreaming? Drugged? In a parallel universe? Has Burt just announced my unspeakable flaw to
the world?
And so what if I don’t get the big O every, single time? Well, I guess I hardly ever get
it…OK—I got it three times, and it would have been four if my vibrator had not quit working. But
I’m not even twenty-seven yet—far from the sexual peak of forty.
At some point during the last minute my phone has started buzzing. My autopilot eyes
glance at it. Friends are texting me about Burt being on TV. So there is something worse than
being a nonorgasmic faker. It’s being a nonorgasmic faker and having the whole world know it.
A loud animallike howl shocks the breath out of me. What is that? I freeze and listen for
a split second before I realize the roar is coming from me.
I muffle my howls, hoping I haven’t alarmed my landlady, who lives in the attached
duplex. With foot in fudge and phone facedown, I’m transfixed.

3
Burt embraces his sobbing wife and mutters endearments. The MC hoofs it into the
audience, whose members are clamoring to speak into the microphone.
A long-haired, leather-vested guy gets the first shot. “Hey, Burt.” He’s got an oily,
smooth voice—could be a talk-show host himself. “Ah, maybe you just ain’t man enough for
Mona.”
Mona. I hate when people call me Mona. But this could be good. Maybe the world will
forget my real name. Yes! Mona.
Next a clean-cut, older guy steps up and glares at the leather vest. “Des. De. Mon. A. Not
Mona.” Crap. “You should be respectful enough to pronounce her complete name.”
The audience interrupts with hoots that could be boos or cheers or random insanity. The
MC swings the mic toward an elderly lady, but the clean-cut guy jerks him back. “I’m not
finished. The first gentleman—” He rolls his eyes toward the leather vest. “—was correct about
one thing.”
The impatient grandma reaches for the mic, and the MC blocks her hand and tries to
hurry the clean-cut guy, who looks like he’s gearing up for a long lecture. “If Desdemona is not
satisfied, it’s clearly a sign of the male’s lack of technique. Research shows…”
Grandma’s hand darts between the two men and snatches the mic. She runs down an aisle
with the MC in pursuit. “Burt!” Her voice is surprisingly loud and shrill. “Did you ask
Desdemona what’s a matter?” She screams out questions as the MC chases, grabbing futilely for
the mic. “Did you ask her why?” This elderly woman sprints like a teenager. “How do you know
she faked? Did you go down?” The audience is out of control now.

4
In a shuffle of arms, a tall, skinny guy commandeers the mic. “Hey, Desdemona.” It’s as
if he’s looking straight at me—in the room with me—seeing me. “Come to me.” Hairs skitter
across the back of my neck. “I’ll get you there, baby.”
Somehow the MC has produced a second mic that overrides the other one and muffles the
noise of the audience. “Thanks for being with us for another shocking episode of Marriage
Exposure. Tune in tomorrow for an unbelievable brother-in-law who sneaks into bed with his
own brother’s wife—” He pauses, moves close to the camera, and raises both eyebrows several
times. “—without her knowing it. You’re not going to want to miss this.”
The camera pans over the audience that is now chanting, “Desdemona, Desdemona,
Desdemona…”
A diet-pill commercial is halfway over before I shake off the shock enough to silence the
TV. Eleanor, my cat, is batting a Brazil nut across the floor. My phone rings. Ugh. It’s Mom. I
grab the phone and the ruined lamb’s wool, scoop up the nuts, and hop toward the kitchen to
stick my foot in the sink. I would ignore my mother, but if I don’t answer, she’ll call my landlady
to come over and make sure I’m not bound and gagged, unconscious, or murdered.
How will I deal with my mother’s shock about Burt’s revelation?
“Mija, where are you?”
“Home.”
“Alone?” She’d like me to be married and have several kids by now. Alone is never a
word she welcomes.
“Yes.”
“On Saturday night—home alone? With all there is to do in Austin?”
“Yes.”

5
She lets a long silence hang. I would normally fill it with disclaimers about being too
tired to go out or the last-minute cancellation of my gig tonight. Instead of chatting her up, I wait
her out and run water over my foot. Eleanor, maybe sensing my misery, rubs against my other
leg. Nothing I could say will divert Mother from Burt’s blast. I take deep breaths, steadying
myself for the onslaught.
She finally seems to realize she’s not getting an explanation about my solitary Saturday
night. “How do I say this?” She sighs loudly. “It’s one thing to know people privately, but to see
them as a nationally known personality…it’s…it’s…”
“Mom, just say it.” Tears well in my eyes. The reality of an insane TV show barging into
my life stabs in places I didn’t know I could hurt.
“OK, OK. Well, it happened while I was with my book-club group at the bookstore.” It’s
really just a book corner in the general store on Main Street.
“You’re at the store?” This makes no sense. It’s too late for the store to be open.
“No—I’m not there now. We were there from six to eight tonight for our weekly
meeting, and then we went to ladies’ night at the margarita bar and had two-for-ones, and I just
now got home. You know that new bar that opened where the bakery used to be?”
There are only a dozen stores in my hometown of Garcia. How could I forget? “Yeah.”
“The antique store is also adding a coffee shop—oh, I’m rambling. Want me to just get to
the point?”
I force out a whisper and blot my tear-slicked face with a paper towel. “Yes.”
She takes a deep breath again. No question that she’s unnerved by the conversation we’re
about to have. My stomach knots. It will be worse to hear my mother talking about Burt and fake
orgasms than it was to hear strangers on national television. I lower my wet but clean foot from

6
the sink so I’m standing solidly. I pick up Eleanor, who allows one of her rare cuddles. She must
know I need it.
“Hunter Johns.”
I gasp. His name triggers the same pow in my chest that happens every time I think of
him, or see a stranger tilt his head that certain way, or hear a laugh that mimics Hunter’s deep
ring, or dream of kissing him only to wake and remember it will never happen again. Pow.
“Desdemona, are you there? Did you hear me?”
I should answer Mom—say something. It’s been over nine years since Hunter and I were
seniors in high school and he left the campus in handcuffs. Nine years since we swore our love to
each other. Nine years since I ruined our chances of ever being together. But still the regret and
loss slice razor sharp.
“Desdemona?”
“What about Hunter?” My voice scrapes.
“Oh, good, I thought we’d been cut off. Well, we were about to discuss our new novel
when all these people flooded in. Not locals, but people from San Antonio, Austin, Houston. It
was just amazing. Our quiet little Saturday-night book talk was turning into…”
“What about Hunter?” I can’t fathom where this is going. I’m so caught off guard that for
a full two seconds I forget Marriage Exposure.
“I’m getting to him. So Alma went up to the manager and asked, ‘What’s going on?’ And
he said a national best-selling mystery writer was here for a book signing. Have you read Des
Amone’s books?”
“Yes. Sure I have.”
“Did you read the one that was made into a movie?”

7

“Mom. Where is this going? What does it have to do with Hunter?”
“Des Amone is Hunter’s pen name. And Hunter came to Garcia to do a hometown launch
of his new book tour. It’s all over the Internet, but none of us noticed. You know we mainly stick
to romances.”
“Des Amone…” I repeat her words to make sense of them. “…is Hunter’s pen name.”
“Isn’t that a hoot? And ya’ll were in school together.” Mom is oblivious to the
relationship I had with Hunter. She lives in her own little world that revolves around her tiny,
barely-break-even flower shop with her upstairs living quarters—my home until I moved to
Austin. “So we each bought his book, and when he signed mine, he asked about you. Can you
believe it—a famous, rich author still remembering a classmate from all those years ago? Isn’t it
funny how his pen name kind of sounds like Desdemona?”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “So for our next meeting we’re all reading Hunter’s
book. You know it’s just so much fun to read a book with a group…”
“What did he say about me? What did you tell him?”
“He just asked how you are, and I told him you were playing all over Austin and giving
lessons. I showed him that picture of you in your long, red dress, playing that red baby grand. I
think it was taken in some bar on Sixth Street. He said, ‘Still beautiful as ever.’” I shut my eyes
and make myself breathe. “We could have talked and talked, but there was a line behind me, so I
moved on. I told him to look you up when he goes to Austin on his book tour. And I gave him
your number.”
The pow that hit me when she said his name evolves into a melody that fills my chest
while she drones on. The melody, not one that I could ever put to music no matter how hard I try,

8
is always there—inside—below the surface. But at times like this it expands, presses, and hurts
in the middle of my chest.

***

Until nine years ago, Hunter’s and my lives had always bordered each other’s. Garcia has only
one high school, which at that time had fewer than eight hundred students. Hunter stood
apart—confident, smart, athletic. For years my eyes were drawn to him whenever we had a class
together—his height and his thick mahogany hair were like banners catching my attention. Even
the bones in his face seemed more substantive than anyone else’s. His strong nose, his forehead
with its masculine bulge above his eyebrows, the vertical line that creased each cheek, making
his face strong even when relaxed. Our art teacher in ninth grade had said, “Hunter, with your
bones, you’ll look the same when you’re an old man as you do now.”
Throughout high school, whether I was in class or the hallway or a common area, my ears
sought out his deep voice and warm laugh. Every day, no matter what else was going on, a part
of me was always listening for Hunter.
In our junior year, we had homeroom together. During the first semester, he sat in the
middle of the room, usually surrounded by three cheerleaders, who acted as if it were their
official role to keep him entertained. I sat in the back, pretended to study, and wished I could be
pretty, blond, blue-eyed Georgina, the one sitting behind Hunter. Get over it. He’s a nice
guy—nice to everyone. His occasional smile at me is just that—a simple smile. I was totally out
of the in-crowd, and piano practice took all my time. So I never knew for sure who he was
dating.

9
One morning in homeroom, his three groupies were giggling about some whispered joke,
and Hunter turned around to face Georgina, who was tapping his shoulder. I watched her hand
relax onto his bicep and imagined it was my hand—imagined I was stroking those prominent
muscles. When I let my gaze slide up his arm to his face, I was shocked that his eyes were
waiting to meet mine. An involuntary gasp escaped from me, and somehow my soft sound
pierced the giggling, and all three girls followed his gaze and turned to stare at me.
I shook my head, and frowned down at whatever textbook was lying open in front of me.
I pretended to be perplexed at some academic mystery. Then I gazed slightly to the right of
Hunter, hoping they would think I was deep in thought and not that I had been salivating for him.
After that embarrassment, I vowed to myself that I would keep my eyes off of Hunter, but
the very next day, I was again drawn into watching Georgina and him. She slid into her desk and
pulled a tightly folded sheet of notebook paper out of her jeans pocket. Hunter seemed to be
ignoring her, focusing on an open book on his desk. She grabbed his shoulder and squeezed, but
he just held up one finger as if to acknowledge her. He didn’t turn to face her. She stood, leaned
her whole body over his shoulder, and passed the note to the cheerleader sitting in front of
Hunter.
The cheerleader unfolded the note, scanned, and instantly turned and slapped the paper
onto Hunter’s desk. “Hardcore.” She grinned wickedly at Hunter.
Hunter shook his head, covered the note with his hand, and slid it under his book. Clearly
whatever he’d seen written on the paper was something he saw fit to cover up. By now a
smattering of giggles all around Hunter caught the teacher’s attention at the exact moment
Hunter tried to hide the note.

10
Miss Gomez walked purposefully down his aisle, halted at his desk, and held out her
hand. “Let’s have it, young man.” She was a first-year teacher, and she took her role as
disciplinarian very seriously.
Hunter gave her the note.
The teacher’s eyebrows shot up above her black-framed glasses. Her tan skin flushed a
burgundy red. “Does this…” Her voice shook. “…this thing belong to you?”
Hunter nodded solemnly with his eyes cast downward toward his desk. “Yes, ma’am.”
She wadded the note, stomped back to her desk, and started writing furiously on her pink
pad. Hunter, anticipating a discipline referral to the office, dropped his book into his bag and was
standing, ready for the pink slip as soon as she ripped it off the pad.
Unbelievable. He was innocent. It was Georgina’s note. He had nothing to do with it. I
gaped at Georgina, waiting for her to own up, but she slumped into her chair and guiltily stared
at Hunter as he walked out of the room.
I fumed all morning. And Georgina’s weeping in the hallway, telling her friends about
Hunter taking the blame for her, didn’t soften my resolve. She needed to own up.
I’d always been so frozen by my crush on Hunter that I’d never actually walked up to
him and initiated a conversation. But now. Now I was determined to help him. At lunch I waited
near his locker, hoping to talk with him. The hallway was almost empty. It looked as if he wasn’t
coming. My heart sank lower as each second ticked by. Then he rounded the corner and started
toward his locker.
I blurted out, “Hunter.” My voice was too loud in the quiet hallway. “I…” I lowered my
volume. “Could I talk to you?”

11
He grinned and picked up his pace. In a few long strides, he was next to me, looking
down at me. Warmth radiated from his body. The scent of him made my heart rate speed
up—made me want to inhale deeply. His neck, up close, was strong and muscled, and I could see
his pulse beat on one side. He had black stubble on his chin. His lips, the bottom one thicker than
the top one, were slightly parted, as if waiting for me to say or do something. For long moments
we stared at each other. Was he remembering the time in our sophomore year when he rescued
me and we almost had a date? My face got hot, and then I did what I always do when nervous. I
babbled. “Georgina brought that note in. You had nothing to do with it. You even ignored her
when she tried to get your attention. She practically bowled you over leaning across you to pass
the note. You are innocent. And it wasn’t fair for you to take the fall. I witnessed the whole—”
He put his hands on my upper arms and gently squeezed. “Are you worried about me?”
He grinned, and his eyes lit up as he peered into mine.
“Well, I…it just isn’t right. I don’t think you should be blamed for something—”
He squeezed again. The touch of his hands on my bare arms arrested my thoughts and my
words. It wouldn’t have mattered what he said at that moment; I was speechless just from the
touch of him.
“Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to me—coach will just make me run extra laps—it’s
no big deal.”
I shook my head—mainly in an effort to clear my head. Then I said as much for myself
as for him, “You must really, truly love her.”
“Georgina?” He huffed out a laugh. “Everyone loves Georgina. But she’s with Leo.
They’re solid.” Leo had graduated the prior year—I had known they were an item while he was

12
still in high school; I didn’t know they were still dating. “He probably gave her the joke—saw
him with it last weekend.”
My head was reeling with this new information. “But, still, you shouldn’t have to take—”
“Desdemona.” My heart stopped when he said my name, especially when he squeezed
my arms again and moved a little closer. “Georgina wants to be class president. If she took the
wrap for the note, they’d probably DQ her. All that will happen to me is laps. And I do laps
every day. It’s nothing.”
My need to babble had ceased. All I knew was that Hunter, gorgeous Hunter, wasn’t with
Georgina, and he was standing closer to me than necessary, and he was holding my arms way
longer than he needed to, and his breath was warm on my face, and if I were to stand on tiptoes
and lean four and one half inches forward, I could put my lips on that pulse beat on the side of
his neck.
And then one side of his lips tilted upward in a grin that tugged at a secret place deep
inside my body. He whispered into my ear. “It will be worth every single lap just to know it
matters to you.”
And the next morning in homeroom, Hunter dragged a desk to the back of the room and
sat behind me. No one questioned it. We were suddenly together. We didn’t get to actually go
out on dates that year—neither of us had a car, and Hunter had huge responsibilities helping his
mom take care of his dad, who had suffered a brain injury in a construction accident. But all day,
every day at school, we were together. And within weeks we started having stolen moments
alone in the piano room.
The band director had given me keys to the high school’s main entry door and the small
piano room because I spent so much time there either practicing alone or accompanying a

13
student instrumentalist. From my freshman year on, my piano teacher often hooked me up with
paying gigs in the community, so with no piano at home, I needed lots of practice time at school.
During our junior year, Hunter’s mother took the job as school secretary, and often, hours after
most people had left the campus, she and I would be the only ones in the building. Usually, few
people ever came down to the small piano room, wedged between janitor’s supply and book
storage.
But sometimes Hunter would come in before he checked in with his mother after athletic
practice. At first I would be surprised to look up from my music and find him listening to me
play. But soon I tingled with hope everyday—hope that he would come in and tell me about his
day.
The first time we kissed was on the piano bench.
He had been standing in the doorway while I practiced “Always on My Mind” for a
fiftieth-wedding-anniversary party the next weekend. The small spinet piano was angled so that
my side faced the doorway, and I could see him in my peripheral vision. After the last measure, I
turned toward him. The word huggable flashed through my mind. That’s how he looked with his
shower-wet hair, gray sweats, and sleeveless T-shirt.
His head was tilted in his reflective way. “That’s beautiful.” Our eyes connected. “You’ll
play it this weekend, right?”
“Yeah—and some others—all their favorites.”
He stepped closer. “Will it bother your playing if I sit beside you while you practice?”
“Of course not.” I patted the bench.
Instead of facing the piano, he straddled the bench and faced me. His closeness set every
cell in my body dancing. His warm exhale touched my neck. My body breathed in on its own as

14
if hungry to capture his breath. My eyes dropped from his eyes to his lips—and lower. As if my
hands had a will of their own, they moved to reach for him. I caught myself. Forced my eyes
forward. Forced my hands to the keyboard.
But he leaned closer, his gaze on my face. I turned back toward him.
“Maybe…” His brown eyes burrowed into mine. He seemed to be casting for his next
words. “…maybe someday you and I—” I inhaled the breath of his words. “—will have a
lifetime—” He moved so close that I felt his lips moving with his last words. “—of favorite
songs.”
I wanted to say, “That’s the sweetest, most romantic, most touching, beautiful thing
anyone could say.” I wanted to say, “You’ve just probed into my deepest, most wonderful
fantasy.” I wanted to say, “Hunter, I love you, love you, love you.” But I froze. Somehow his
eyes asked me if I was OK. I must have nodded because the distance between our lips closed.
The feeling of being connected to him—of not knowing where I ended and he started—blurred
out everything else. For a time, I lost track of where our hands were, of how his legs were
embracing me along with his arms, of how our bodies were plush together, of how his secret
bulge was speaking to my thigh.
Footfalls, his mother’s high-heeled shoes clanking up the empty hallway, pulled us apart.
Hunter stood, and I played the opening measures of “Always on My Mind” as she opened
the door.

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