Susan’s back for one last day of recipes! Anyone tried one of the others yet. I’ve tried more than a few of Susan’s delicious recipes and I swear she’s never steered me wrong yet. The woman can COOK!

Sherrill’s Fruit Salad

I got this fruit salad from someone I worked with years ago.  It makes a huge batch, and is SO, SO good!

Just a reminder to mention that it has nuts, for those with allergies.

1 large or 2 small cans of mandarin oranges

2 large cans of fruit cocktail

2 large cans of chunk pineapple

3 large bananas, cut up

1 cup finely chopped walnuts (optional – I never put them!)

2 large containers of whipped cream

1 large package of pistachio pudding, prepared

Combine pudding and cool whip.  Add drained fruit, bananas and nuts.  Chill.

And let’s not forget Corn on the Cob!  It doesn’t seem like summer here without it.

Our favorite way to make it – peel the husks down but don’t remove, remove the silks, rub with olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper.  Pull husks back up and wrap in aluminum foil.  Cook on the grill.

Even though Misplaced Cowboy takes place in New York in November, Dylan and Monet finds ways to heat things up. This book releases TOMORROW and I cannot wait!!!

“You’d make a fortune inNew York as a life-drawing model at all the art schools.”

Dylan studied her. His groin grew tight. “I’m very particular about who I strip in front of.”

Monet’s stare jerked back to his face and he couldn’t miss the way her breasts heaved as she hitched in a quick breath. “Really?”

Holding her gaze, he rose slowly to his feet, released his buckle, unzipped his fly, pushed his jeans down and kicked them aside.

“Oh god, Dylan.” An expression flickered across her face, like pained torment. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

He swallowed, unable to look away. “No contact. No touching. Just drawing…or whatever you’re doing behind the easel. We’re adults, Monet. We can control ourselves.”

A short, sharp snort came from her. “Speak for yourself, buster. Looking at you naked…I don’t think it’s drawing I’ll be doing behind this easel.”

“Do you want me to put my jeans back on?”

His question seemed to scratch at his throat like sandpaper.

She shook her head, lifted her chin and then stepped back behind the easel again.

Fifteen minutes later, Dylan swore he’d never boast of being able to control himself again. Every time Monet looked at him, her inspection moving over his naked form, he had to grit his teeth. His cock was already semi-hard. It was all he could do to keep it in that state. Conversation became stilted. He knew why. They were both fighting it, the attraction they felt for each other. They may be talking about Farpoint andAustralia, but they were thinking about sex. With each other. Taking off his jeans had been—

“Finished.”

He started at Monet’s soft proclamation.

She was standing beside the easel again, one hand resting on the edge of the board, the fingers of the other gripping a stub of charcoal. A black smudge streaked across her right cheek and above her left eye. Her hair tumbled about her face in a cascade of waves. Her color was high, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. He’d never seen her look so sexy.

He straightened from the stool. “May I look?”

She took a step backward and nodded.

His heart thumped fast. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Snatching up his jeans, he shoved in one leg and then the other. Being beside her naked would only be asking for more trouble than he was already in. Jesus, he couldn’t even tuck his dick into his jeans without ropes of pleasure unfurling through his body.

It took him forever to zip up his fly. His hands shook, for fuck’s sake.

Jesus bloody Christ, Sullivan. Get a grip.

Monet waited. Silent.

Six steps later—she counted them in an attempt to calm his charged state—he stood at the easel and let out a long, ragged breath.

“Damn, Monet.” He stared at the drawing before him, his image captured with such powerful, confident strokes he was at a loss for what to say. “That’s incredible.”

“Thank you.”

Heart wild in his chest, blood roaring in his ears, he turned to her.

She was studying her work, an expression of revelation lighting up her face. “I was wrong,” she said suddenly, her voice hushed. “It’s not your accent, it’s your grin.”

“What’s my grin?”

“What gets me so much about you. I thought it was your accent but it’s your grin. It’s the sexiest, most infectious, most honest smile I’ve ever—”

He kissed her before she could finish. He simply had no hope of stopping himself.

No fucking hope at all.

Misplaced Cowboy is available for preorder at Ellora’s Cave, Amazon, and Barnes and Noble.