Amie Stuart Here Christmas Day 7pm PST. Author of: THE BIG GIRL'S GUIDE TO BUYING LINGERIE

 Christmas Day
7 pm PST.
Amie Stuart
Author of:
The Big Girl’s Guide to Buying Lingerie


“Redneck Casanova”
After a disastrous marital near-miss Jade Ballard retreats to San Antonio, cutting herself off from the world in general and more specifically her family’s country club lifestyle, which she no longer wants any part of. She takes comfort in food and eventually, the safety of an internet love affair.
“Miss Snooty Pants”
Rowdy Yates is a semi-reformed womanizer who’s leery of long-term entanglements. Until Jade, he never seriously considered anything beyond a “Wife-For-A-Night.” After months of flirting on the internet the couple meets, only to discover they already know one another. Rowdy has always mistaken Jade’s shy reserved nature for snobbishness, and Jade has always viewed the woman-loving Rowdy as a Redneck Casanova.
But the months they spent getting to know one another formed an attraction neither can fight.
Warning: This book contains cookie consumption, shopping, rants about bras, lost bras, stolen bras, a fake engagement, hawt sexy times, and a snooty plus-sized chick who falls hard for her Redneck Casanova.

 I sighed into my coffee and replayed my previous night’s coughing fit as if it had been the winning touchdown in the last three seconds of the Super Bowl. Slow-Mo.
As punishment, I woke up early and subjected myself to another round of Pilates From Hell. Though I doubted they’d do much good after yesterday’s cookie binge. My last cookie binge, I might add. Never ever again would a Milano pass my lips or darken my cupboard!
After the previous night’s phone call, which had left me shaken, I’d thrown them all away and carried the trash to the curb, so I couldn’t change my mind. Thanks to my coughing fit, I’d lain in bed all night nursing a sore scratchy throat, staring at the ceiling and wondering what I’d gotten myself into. Dear Lord, I had a date with Robbie!
I’d talked to him on the phone, for heaven’s sake!
Burrowing in the mattress, I sighed again, unable to keep a smile off my face. He sounded even yummier than his emails, but thanks to my self-imposed exile, I had no friends to talk me down from the chandelier. Except Chrystine, and I knew what she’d say: Get some for me, while you’re at it!
No sleep hadn’t helped matters. Shortly before three I’d woken up hot and sweaty, all tangled in my sheets and gasping for air. After a quick shower, I’d checked my mail, wondering if he were home yet. He wasn’t, but did I go back to bed? No!
Half asleep and more than a little sexually frustrated, I sat and typed him this long email about my blues club dream. I’d expected to find a reply laughing at me, or worse, canceling our date when I checked in next. I should have known better. Instead I got this:
Nice to see you listen to me  *ggg*. You bring the black dress, I’ll bring the hands. Now go back to bed and dream of me some more.
If only he knew I’d dreamed of him all night. I was still so flustered over the events of the last twelve hours and hung over from lack of sleep, I hadn’t bothered to answer his emails. Instead, I’d headed downstairs and cooked myself breakfast.
Even eating on the back porch, surrounded by my miniature garden hadn’t helped calm me down.
On exercise-weak legs, I carried my cup and plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs back inside, rinsed the plate and refilled my coffee cup.
I dragged myself upstairs to the office, wincing with every step. My stomach ached from those stupid Pilates, but more importantly, I had nothing to wear for my date.  Nothing!
Everything from my country club, size ten days were long past zipping or buttoning or snapping. Let alone pulling up. Which left me with a huge dilemma.
Where do fat chicks buy sexy clothes?
More importantly, did they even make anything that didn’t look like something my great-grandmother wouldn’t be caught dead in—a problem I’d encountered more than once while shopping for work clothes. Considering my great-grandmother probably wore crinolines and pantaloons, that wasn’t saying much.
I spent the morning hunting all over the internet for something local, since I wasn’t stupid enough to buy anything without trying it on first. The only place I found was closed on Sundays, and the clock was ticking. I could see Alice’s rabbit from Wonderland tapping his foot and twitching his ears.
Horror of horrors, I also saw a trip to the mall in my future.
 After a trip to the grocery store, I slipped into the beauty supply place next door, and ten minutes later I emerged with five different shades of polish, files and everything else I’d need to spruce up my nails.
I couldn’t type with long nails and had never seen the sense in having fake short ones. That ranked right up there with decaf coffee and non-alcoholic beer.
But somewhere between The Great Cookie Caper and the grocery store, I’d come to some sort of unconscious decision. Three years of no nail polishing and the most minimal of makeup were officially behind me. I couldn’t help myself. Deep down inside my girly-girl had woken up and now cried for freedom. I couldn’t lose fifty pounds in less than two weeks, but if I was going to meet Robbie, I wanted to look my best. That much I could do.
And that much I wanted to do.

Warning: If you’re expecting me to write something serious here, you will be disappointed.
I can’t say I’m one of those writers who always KNEW they wanted to be a writer. Nor could I say I’ve been doing it all my life, though I did find some old notes I wrote my mom eons ago-I think I was five. My how time flies.
Growing up, I wanted to be a lawyer and a psychologist– obviously I’ve seen the light, though to be honest, I’ve never settled down into any career until I started writing. I’ve worked fast food, as a receptionist, an office manager (in a daycare that gets me bonus points), delivered pizza, did a stint at Wally World as a cashier, was a hairdresser for 5 years (oh the stories I could tell), and even worked one weekend waitressing in a strip club. And that’s just the stuff I got paid to do! These days I file stuff, answer phones and tweak websites to put food on the table-this is important when you have kids who grow faster than puppies-and write in my spare time.
I figure it was all training for the writing gig. That and all those Barbara Cartland romances I cut my teeth on.
I don’t drink beer (why would I when God gave us Vodka?) and I don’t like football, but don’t tell the Powers that Be or they might revoke my Texas Citizenship. And I say ya’ll but never ya’ll all, cause that’s just wrong.
Last but not least, I’m a storyteller and a writer, and I’m here to entertain you.
Pets: Um five. I have no idea how this happened.
Books: WAY too many. I have no idea how this happened either. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
What do you read for fun: Pretty much anything!
What would you be doing if you couldn’t be a writer? Be a professional sleeper. You can get paid for that, right?
Who is your favorite basketball team? Hmm if you ask my kids, it’s UT (that’s Longhorns), but truthfully I’m a longtime North Carolina fan.

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