New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author, Cathryn Fox is a wife, mom, sister, daughter, and friend. She loves dogs, sunny weather, anything chocolate (she never says no to a brownie) pizza and red wine. She has two teenagers who keep her busy with their never ending activities, and a husband who is convinced he can turn her into a mixed martial arts fan. Cathryn can never find balance in her life, is always trying to find time to go to the gym, can never keep up with emails, Facebook or Twitter but loves to spend time writing page-turning books that her readers will love.A:
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SGBE: Hi, Cathryn. Thank you for agreeing to an interview with Sassy Girls. We’re glad you’re here!
Cathryn: Hi Everyone!
Q: What is your work schedule like when you’re writing?
A: I set a goal of 3K a day. Sometimes that can take 3 hours sometimes it can take 12. If I finish early, I turn my attention to marketing (Facebook, Instagram…cough cough) LOL. Seriously I do admin work, etc, if I make my word count fast.
Q: Where do you get your information or ideas for your books?
A: I get my ideas from all over. I had a dream the other night and had to get up and write it down. One of my best selling stories, Hold Me Down Hard, came from listening to a song!
Q: What do you like to do when you’re not writing?A:When I’m not writing, I love spending time with my family and reading. I also love to travel. My son lives in Seattle. I’m in Nova Scotia. Could he have moved any farther away!! I also love gardening, and I walk with my sister every evening.
Q: How many books have you written? Which is your favourite?A:I have written over 80 books, including full length novels, novellas and collection. My favorite is spicy contemporary romance. My favorite is usually the one I just finished.
Q: Do you hear from your readers much? What kinds of things do they say?
A: I absolutely love my readers and love to hear from them. I have a reader review team called Foxy Fiction, and interact with my readers all the time. We talk books, characters, names, plot etc. If you’re interested you can join here. https://www.facebook.com/groups/FOXYFICTION/
The Body Checker by Cathryn Fox
I’m the NHL’s toughest enforcer, the Body Checker, and I earned that title the hard way. I’m all about the game, a no attachment, no strings kind of guy, so when a puck bunny shows up at my door, shoves a pink bundle into my hands and drives off into the sunset, it turns my world upside down. I’m not cut out to be a family man. I know nothing about babies and I’m the last guy who should be taking care of one. But I do know someone who is equipped for the job—Quinn Reed, my best friend’s kid sister. Problem is, she kind of…hates me.
Jonah Long…a father? Move in and help take care of his daughter? Crazy as that sounds, I agree to the temporary arrangement, for the child’s sake. Problem is, living with the guy I’ve crushed on since forever, is messing with my body as well as my brain. And now, watching him grow as a man, seeing the bond between father and daughter build, I can’t help but want this family for myself. But we’re just playing house, and Jonah isn’t interested in making this ready-made family the real deal…right?
A loud thump from one of the many upstairs bedrooms pulls me awake. I shift on the sofa, open one eye, and groan. Partly because my place is a disaster after last night’s—all night— party, and party because I have a killer fucking headache that’s blurring my vision.
I turn over, using slow, easy movements, and the beer bottles lined up on the coffee table sway as I try to blink the room into focus. I steal a glance at the massive clock on my wall, each tick of the second hand amplified in my head as I discover it’s just past noon. Christ, I’ve only been asleep for a few hours.
I close my eyes as I think about finding my way to my comfortable king-size bed, but another loud thump sets off a pounding behind my eyes. I’m going to fucking kill whoever is stomping around upstairs. But when the noise continues, I realize the banging isn’t coming from one of the bedrooms, it’s coming from my front door.
I drag my hands through my mussed hair, smoothing it down, and swallow against a dry throat as I try to pull myself together.
Who the hell would be at my door this early on a Saturday morning? All my buddies are asleep in my house. Most have flown back to Boston, my hometown and the spot where I’ll be hanging out after a successful season, to celebrate my massive contract extension with the Seattle Shooters, and anyone who knows me, knows I like to sleep in when I’m not on the road.
The knocking continues. “Okay, I’m coming,” I yell, and reluctantly climb from the sofa. I grumble under my breath, trip over a pizza box, and stumble to the door. “What?” I asks as I open it, the noon-hour sun burning the shit out of my eyes. I shade my face with my hand, take in the woman on my stoop.
“Jonah,” Shari says, and holds a small pink bundle out to me. A small pink bundle that looks as bad-tempered as I feel.
“What’s going on?” I ask, as the baby in Shari’s arms lets out a loud shriek. Jesus. I falter backward, my head ready to explode from the godawful noise.
“What’s going on is I’m tired, Jonah. I haven’t slept in four months, and now it’s your turn to take care of her.”
I squint and look into the baby’s blue eyes, take in her tear-streaked cheeks. “What are you talking about?”
“Meet Daisy,” she says and shoves the baby into my arms. She cries louder, and I’m sure my head just cracked at the base of my skull.
“Daisy?” I say.
“Yeah, Daisy. Your daughter.”
My head rears back. Oh, fuck no. I must be hearing her wrong. Has to be the hangover messing with my ability to comprehend. I pinch my eyes shut and open them again, hoping I’m hallucinating, but nope—Shari and the baby are still there. “What did you just say?”
“Meet Daisy. She’s your daughter.” Shari pulls a big bag from her shoulders and drops it in front of my bare feet. “You have enough formula and diapers for a couple days. I suggest you do some shopping.”
She turns to leave, and I reach out and cup her elbow. “Oh no, no way is this child mine.” I try to hand the squirming bundle back, but Shari folds her arms and steps backward, out of my reach.
“Oh, she’s yours, all right.”
I rack my brain, Think back to the last time Shari was in my bed. “We used protection. I always use protection,” I remind her. “You’re making a mistake. This kid can’t be mine.”
“She can and she is.” She gives me a look that suggests I’m dense. “The condom broke, remember?”
Wait, was that with Shari?
“No, I don’t remember.” Okay, I’ve been with a few girls—or a lot—but I don’t remember a condom breaking when I was with Shari. But it’s possible it could have. Judging from the bundle in my arms, I’d say it’s more than possible. Still, I’m not ready to accept it as truth. I give a hard shake of my head and the room spins around me. “You’ve got to be mistaken.”
“She’s four months old, Jonah. A little over a year ago, I was in your hotel room in Philly, and the condom broke.”
I remember Philly. Shari had flown there, and we had one hell of a wild weekend, but no way am I ready for a baby, to be a father, which is why I always wear protection.
“Wait, didn’t you say you were on the pill?” If I’m remembering correctly, she told me not to bother with the condom, but I used one anyway.
“So you remember that, but you don’t remember the condom breaking?”
I search for clarity. Stupid fucking hangover. “I don’t know what I remember. But what I do know is, you can’t leave her here with me,” I say, and hold the baby out to her. “I don’t know the first things about babies.”
“Then you’d better read a book, or google it.” Before I can stop her, Shari races down the front steps and hops into her car. The doors slams and without so much as a glance our way, she drives off.
I stand there, the baby still in my outstretched arms as I glance up and down the street.
What the fuck just happened?