Read First Pages and Preorder LUSH MONEY

I am so glad to finally share with you the first pages of LUSH MONEY, my debut romance novel. Dedications have been written, typeset is complete, and now begins the marketing that hopefully gets this book noticed by readers. You can help: preorders are a big part of getting my book noticed by reviewers, so if you're planning to buy it, preordering it is hugely appreciated. I hope you enjoy this excerpt. It’s long so I put the beginning here and the rest in the link.

Lush Money
by
Angelina M. Lopez

A marriage of convenience and three nights a month.
That’s all the sultry, self-made billionaire wants from the impoverished prince.
And at the end of the year, she’ll grant him his divorce…with a settlement large enough to save his beloved kingdom.

As a Latinx woman, Roxanne Medina has conquered small-town bullies, Ivy League snobs and boardrooms full of men. She’s earned the right to mother a princess and feel a little less lonely at the top. The offer she’s made is more than generous, and when the contract’s fulfilled, they’ll both walk away with everything they’ve ever wanted.

Príncipe Mateo Ferdinand Juan Carlos de Esperanza y Santos is one of the top winegrowers in the world, and he’s not marrying and having a baby with a stranger. Even if the millions she’s offering could save his once-legendary wine-producing principality.

But the successful, single-minded beauty uses a weapon prince Mateo hadn’t counted on: his own desire.

January: Night One

Mateo Ferdinand Juan Carlos de Esperanza y Santos—the “Golden Prince,” the only son of King Felipe, and heir to the tiny principality of Monte del Vino Real in northwestern Spain—had dirt under his fingernails, a twig of Tempranillo FOS 02 in his back pocket, and a burning desire to wipe the mud of his muck boots on the white carpet where he waited. But he didn’t. Under the watchful gaze of the executive assistant, who stared with disapproving eyes from his standing desk, Mateo kept his boots tipped back on the well-worn heels and his white-knuckled fists jammed into the pits of his UC Davis t-shirt. Staying completely still and deep breathing while he sat on the white couch was the only way he kept himself from storming away from this lunacy.

What the fuck had his father gotten him into?

A breathy ding sighed from the assistant’s laptop. He granted Mateo the tiniest of smiles. “You may go in now,” he said, hustling to the chrome-and-glass doors and pulling one open with a flourish. The assistant didn’t seem to mind the dirt so much now as his eyes traveled—lingeringly—over Mateo’s dusty jeans and t-shirt.

Mateo felt his niñera give him a mental smack upside the head when he kept his baseball cap on as he entered the office. But he was no more willing to take his cap off now than he’d been willing to change his clothes when the town car showed up at his lab, his ears ringing with his father’s screams about why Mateo couldn’t refuse.

The frosted-glass door closed behind him, enclosing him in a sky-high corner office as regal as any throne room. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed off Coit Tower to the west, the Bay Bridge to the east, and the darkening hills of San Francisco in between. The twinkling lights of the city flicked on like discovered jewels in the gathering night, adornment for this white office with its pale woods, faux fur pillows, and acrylic side tables. This office at the top of the fifty-five-floor Medina Building was opulent, self-assured. Feminine.

And empty.

He’d walked in the Rose Garden with the U.S. President, shaken the hand of Britain’s queen, and kneeled in the dirt with the finest winemakers in Burgundy, but he stood in the middle of this empty palatial office like a jackass, not knowing where to sit or how to stand or who to yell at to make this situación idiota go away.

A door hidden in the pale wood wall opened. A woman walked out, drying her hands.

Dear God, no.

She nodded at him, her jowls wriggling as she tossed her paper towel back into the bathroom. “Take a seat, Príncipe Mateo. I’ll prepare Roxanne to speak with you.”

Of course. Of course Roxanne Medina, founder and CEO of Medina Now Enterprises, wasn’t a sixty-year-old woman with a thick waist in medical scrubs. But “prepare” Roxanne to…

Ah.

The nurse leaned across the delicate, Japanese-style desk and opened a laptop perched on the edge. She pushed a button and a woman came into view on the screen. Or at least, the top of a woman’s head came into view. The woman was staring down through black-framed glasses, writing something on a pad of paper. A sunny, tropical day loomed outside the balcony door behind her.

Inwardly laughing at the farce of this situation, Mateo took a seat in a leather chair facing the screen. Apparently, Roxanne Medina couldn't be bothered to meet the man she wanted to marry in person.

Two minutes later, he was no longer laughing. She hadn’t looked at him. She just kept scribbling, giving him nothing to look at but the palm tree swaying behind her and the part in her dark, shiny hair.

He glanced at the nurse. She stared back, blank-eyed. He’d already cleared his throat twice.

Fuck this. “Excuse me,” he began.

“Helen, it sounds like the prince may have a bit of a dry throat.” Roxanne Medina spoke, finally, without raising her eyes from her document. “Could you get him a glass of water?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

As the nurse headed to a decanter, Mateo said, “I don’t need water. I’m trying to find out…”

Roxanne Medina raised one delicate finger to the screen. Without looking up. Continuing to write. Without a word or a sound, Roxanne Medina shushed him, and Mateo—top of his field, head of his lab, a goddamned príncipe—he let her, out of shock and awe that another human being would treat him this way.

He never treated people this way.

He moved to stand, to storm out, when a water glass appeared in front of his face and a hair was tugged from his head.

“Ow!” he yelled as he turned to glare at the granite-faced nurse holding a strand of his light brown hair.

“Fantastic, I see the tests have begun.”

Mateo turned back to the screen and pushed the water glass out of his way so he could see the woman who finally deigned to speak to him.

“Tests?”

She was beautiful. Of course she was beautiful. When you have billions of dollars at your disposal, you can look any way you want. Roxanne Medina was sky-blue eyed, high-breasted and lush-lipped, with long and lustrous black hair. On the pixelated screen, he couldn’t tell how much of her was real or fake. He doubted even her stylist could remember what was Botoxed, extended, and implanted.

Still, she was striking. Mateo closed his mouth with a snap.

Her slow, sensual smile let him know she’d seen him do it.

Mateo glowered as Roxanne Medina slipped her delicate black reading glasses up on her head and aimed those searing blue eyes at him. “These tests are just a formality. We’ve tested your father and sister and there were no genetic surprises.”

“Great,” he deadpanned. “Why are you testing me?”

Her sleek eyebrows quirked. “Didn’t your father explain this already?” A tiny gold cross hung in the V of her ivory silk top. “We’re testing for anything that might make the Golden Prince a less-than-ideal specimen to impregnate me.”

(Click to keep reading…)

P.S. Save the date! My book launch party will be Friday, November 8 at One More Page Books in Falls Church, Virginia. Pre-order your book by clicking “One More Page” in the above link, and I’ll sign it Nov. 8! We’ll celebrate with tapas and wine!!

Angelina and "Lush Money" in the Media

Folks, there’s buzz. The cover release for my debut book, Lush Money, has created the faintest hint of buzz. It’s surreal and awesome to see my name mentioned in publications and beside authors I deeply admire. It’s surreally awesome. Here’s a roundup…

Lush Money in Publishers Weekly

I was thrilled to discover that Lush Money was featured in Publishers Weekly at the end of May in an article about upcoming “royalty” stories with a modern tone. To see my cover next to Alyssa Cole’s fabulous A Prince on Paper was really awesome. Also discussed in this article is Casey McQuiston’s massively popular, Red, White & Royal Blue, as well as Jasmine Guillory’s Royal Holiday. You can click the image below to read the full article.

Lush Money in Frolic

I’m hiding deep in my writing cave this week to finish the first draft of the second book in the Filthy Rich series, so I planned to stay offline. Thank goodness I broke my own rule: When I poked my head up on Twitter on Tuesday, I discovered I’d been featured in a Frolic story, “4 Upcoming Romance Novels By Latinx Authors I’m Most Excited About.” Featured along with Lush Money in the article are books by Adriana Herrera, Andie J. Christopher, and Zoey Castile.

Angelina Talking Craft on DIYMFA Interview Series

I gave my first craft talk with Gabriela Pereira for the DIYMFA Writer Igniter Romance Summit. I truly loved the topic: I talked about how to write alpha heroines, how to make them distinctive from alpha heroes, and how their femininity is an aspect of alpha heroines’ strength. My billionaire businesswoman Roxanne Medina taught me a lot about strong women! It will air next Wednesday, June 19, but if you sign up now, you can get two weeks of romance craft from phenomenal authors like Roni Loren, Tiffany Reisz, Jodi Thomas and Heather Graham.

Sign up now to hear episode on Wednesday, June 19

Cover Reveal!!!

The title -- "The Billionaire's Prince" -- was the first spark of inspiration I had back in 2015 during Christmas break, while I was visiting my parents at the vineyard: What if the billionaire we romance writers spend so much time writing about was a woman?

In three-and-a-half years, that spark has grown into a completed book, an agent, a three-book publishing deal, a new title, and, at long last, a cover.

I am thrilled to reveal the cover for my debut novel, Lush Money:

Preorder now available!

Creating a cover is an intricate process of me giving suggestions and then the smart people at Carina Press -- art, editorial, marketing and publicity -- putting together their much-more-experienced heads and coming up with a cover that defines the book and leaps out among a million romance novels.

There are some awesome things that make this cover distinctive from the others on the shelves.

One of the best bits -- they got the woman on top! It's super hard to find stock photographs with the woman in a dominant position. And my self-made billionaire heroine, Roxanne Medina, is certainly in charge of this book.

Initially, I thought our prince, Mateo de Esperanza y Santos, was a little scruffier here than I'd imagined him in my head. But my brilliant editor Kerri Buckley pointed out that in the opening of the book, he's in a baseball cap and muddy muck boots. She said:

"Mateo is a next-gen prince... He’s the winemaker, he’s the man-of-the-people savior, he’s down on his knees in the literal dirt. He’s the one who doesn’t want the throne or all the trappings that go with it. I think that is infinitely more interesting and appealing to depict than yet another guy in a suit."

See, I said they were smarter and more experienced than I am.

Additionally, I love the golden vineyard in the background. So many romance novels fade to black. I think the lush couple and mellow gold scene will make it stick out when people are rushing through thumbnails on Amazon.

The fact that my cover will be one of those thumbnails is a dream come true.

PREORDER NOW AVAILABLE!

New title, release date, and first signing!

For several months, the main push of my publishing journey was writing the second book in my three-book series. But in recent weeks, as Carina Press puts the final touches on my first book to get it ready for publication, the big news has been coming fast and furious. Here’s a round-up!

New title and series title

While I loved the title, “The Billionaire’s Prince”, it was hard to re-create for the rest of the books: The Millionaire’s Rock Star (ugh!), The CEO’s Body Guard (worse!). The wise folks at Carina Press gave the series a title I absolutely adore:

FILTHY RICH

And then christened The Biilionaire’s Prince with its new title:

Lush Money

It’s a cheeky play on words that I think is fabulous and distinctive; distinctive is hard to find in romance titles.

Release Date

I now have the exact date you can get your hot little hands on Lush Money.

Oct. 8 for ebook

Oct. 28 for print

Click here to be notified when Lush Money is available for purchase?

First signing

Those attending the Romance Writer’s of America conference in New York City in July will be the first to get their hands on a FREE download of Lush Money. Carina Press is holding an author signing on Friday, July 26 from 2:30-3:30 p.m. While I won’t have printed copies of my book yet, I will have free USBs of the book that you can download and I will be signing postcards. Please come by and spare this newbie author from sitting there alone with that pained smile on her face!!

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Fight to Win: Inspiration for Writers at the Washington Romance Writers Retreat

On Sunday, April 14, I gave the closing speech for the Washington DC Romance Writers annual writers’ retreat. This is a meaningful weekend for me: since I was a wee-aspiring writer, this weekend was where I learned from bestselling romance writers, mingled with industry heavyweights, and found encouragement among a sisterhood of supportive authors. To be asked to give the closing speech was a knock-me-out honor. I wanted to do a good job for them. I hope I did. - Angelina

Photo credit: Jamaila Brinkley (L), Tara Kennedy (R)

I began the speech by putting on the above glasses and boa, and lip syncing (I know!!!) to the song “Fight to Win” by Goodie Mob. I did everyone a favor by miming only the first verse, then taking the glasses and boa off and promising never to do that to anyone ever again.

That song is “Fight to Win” by the Goodie Mob. You might recognize the singer as CeeLo Green. When I first heard it in 2012, I immediately thought, “That’s a song about writers.” It’s been my writing anthem ever since and I hope I can inspire you with it today.

When the Washington DC Romance Writers retreat organizer called in October to ask me to give the “inspiring” closing speech of the retreat weekend, it literally was the end of the worst week of my life. I put her off, told her that my husband and I were leaving for Kenya in a couple of days and could I call her when I got back. She agreed. But while I was away, I kept thinking, “How in the world can I give this speech?”

This Business is Hard

The first verse says:

I am fighting for the liberation
Of voices with something to say
Like many before me, for glory
You have to stand in harm's way

Well, to give this speech, where I had to stand was in Nora Roberts’s incredibly intimidating footsteps.

I joined RWA in 1998, I joined the Washington DC Romance Writers (WRW) soon after, and went to my first retreat in 2003 or 04. Back then, the retreat was in Harper’s Ferry, at this huge, historical, falling-apart hotel overlooking the joint of two rivers in West Virginia. The bugs and flooding showers were not the draw of the retreat – it was Nora Roberts. Nora Roberts was an active WRW member and would take a part in the retreat weekends, hanging out with the authors, allowing newbies like me to bug her. And Nora would give the closing speech.

Now, during her closing speech, Nora said things newbie-me did not want to hear. Among authors, among friends, she cursed like a sailor in her throaty voice and she talked honestly about that “harm’s way” that authors have to stand in. She told us about the readers who said derogatory things about her books and the media who constantly nudge, nudge, wink, winked her about the sex.

Nora did not sugarcoat things for us. What she did, in this protected space, was tell us the truth. The truth: This is a business. And this business is hard.

• You will write a book, construct the perfect baby, and the first agent or editor or beta reader you show it to will tell you that it’s awful. You will shove it under the bed crying because your characters will never have their say in the world.

• You will do the work and have the deal and put out the books – and you still won’t be able to quit your day job.

• You will write the books and make the money – but because of the color of your skin or the gender of who your character loves or the truth about our world that your character stands for – you will have to fight tooth and nail for what other authors take for granted.

But this is the journey. To write, to liberate your voice and say what your voice demands that you say, you have to fight. You have to fight the demons of racism and bias. You have to fight that interior voice that tells you you’re not good enough, and that you’re not worthy. You have to fight the siren of the fourth season of Schitt’s Creek on your Netflix queue tempting you out of your writing chair.

You have to stand in harm’s way.

Imposter Syndrome

The next verse of the song is:

I’m no savior, just a soldier
Soldier with an order
So I have no choice but to trust the God
Cause it must be done

Now when Angele, the retreat organizer, first asked me to give this speech (at the end of the worst week of my life), I gave this crazy laugh and I said, “Angele, this isn’t imposter syndrome. I am an imposter.”

This ‘worst week of my life’ began with a flare up of sciatica that I thought had gone away. Sciatica is a daunting and chronic back/leg pain, it’s awful and it’s boring. Blah. But I had this flare up a week before I was going to Kenya. Where we were doing a horseback safari.

Now, I began writing as a young woman. Like, of 5. Writing was always that thing I could do and in the fifth grade – as a pragmatic little Virgo – I told my mom that I wanted to be an author but I didn’t think I could make money at it. So she recommended I become a newspaper journalist. I wrote for newspapers and magazines – a story of mine is in the Newseum – but after I had children, I decided I was going to take my long-held adoration and admiration for romance novels out of the closet and start writing them.

I have been writing romance on-and-off for 18 years. Because I was raising kids, I put more energy into writing than publishing. But I worked on plot and character development and the art of ass in chair. I went to retreats and conferences and pitched to industry professional. I made amazing author friends who let me learn from their writing and publishing journeys.

I put in my 10,000 hours and with those 10,000 hours, I wrote a book about a billionaire businesswoman and a modern-day prince with an impoverished kingdom that got me an agent. My phenomenal agent, Sara Megibow.

But when Angele asked me to give this speech, I was a once-young writer who felt old with her sciatica, who had an amazing agent and book I believed in, but no publishing deal. I was an imposter to believe I could stand here and give you this speech.

But the thing about being an imposter…aren’t we all one? We make up people and towns and universes to trick readers into feeling good. If that doesn’t make us all frauds, I don’t know what does. And in this industry – and I would argue, in all of them – no one feels like they’ve “arrived.” The written-a-book writer wants to publish. The published author wants to earn out. The earning out author wants to make a list. The list author wants it to happen again.

None of us are saviors. We’re all soldiers with an order. And that awesome, awful, inspiring, pain-in-the-ass order is to overcome our imposter syndrome every day and say yes to the words, because it must be done.

Courage and Foolishness

The next verse of the song is:

You should be proud for the courage
The courage to think out loud
You’ll find your way it you’re foolish enough to be faithful

Is there any better way to describe a writer than someone full of courage and foolishness?

Three days after the flare up of my sciatica, I got a text from my agent. “Can I give you a call?” she asked. The events of the previous year had inured me to bad news, so I was ready and not ready when the phone rang. Sara said, “Angelina, I’m just going to say it, your three-book deal fell through.”

See, at the beginning of the worst week of my life, when the sciatica flared up, I had a three-book deal. It was my first deal, and I thought I’d squeaked under the wire to have my first publishing contract before I turned 45. Not so. The publisher decided that he no longer wanted to publish romance. Sara suggested that we both have drinks and we’d coordinate a plan of attack in the morning. I hung up, fell face first in the couch, and my two teenaged sons took amazing care of me until my husband got home.

I’ve been a member of WRW for 18 years. And because of all this knowledge I’ve gleaned from WRW authors willing and enthusiastic to bolster unpublished authors, I knew that this is what happens. Deals fall through, editors leave in the midst of your revisions, and agents sign you then drop off the map. It’s a business, and it apathetically and indiscriminately breaks your heart. But what I also learned from WRW, from going to these meeting and talking to these authors, is the foolishness to be faithful. WRW preaches the resiliency of continuing to do it. What I learned here helped me believe that no matter what happened, I could still make this career a reality.

Every writer who is struggling: Be proud that you have the courage to think out loud. You have the courage to put to paper and show to people what so many others can’t. So many people have the idea to write a book or they’re going to write a book or they’ve written half a book. You’re writing a book or you’ve written a book. You have the courage to think out loud and the foolishness to be faithful.

It's Surely Not Impossible

The final verse is:

Believe me, it won’t be easy
But it's surely not impossible
And if they won't listen
Save your breath and save yourself

Sara’s call was on the Thursday of the worst week of my life, so Friday found me at a commiseration lunch with my girlfriend, one cocktail in, plenty more planned, when my phone rings. It’s my 20-year-old son’s psychiatrist. She asks me if I can come pick him up because she’s not comfortable with him leaving alone. As my friend is driving me to the psychiatrist’s office, I say, “Can you imagine if the worst news I get this week ISN’T the loss of my 3-book deal?” It was prescient. The psychiatrist was doing some testing with my son, and she said that his feelings of hopelessness and self-harm were so high, she wasn’t comfortable with him leaving alone.

My incredibly intelligent, successful, plans-to-be-a-physicist son came home second-semester of his freshman year in college because he was suffering from social anxiety disorder that we didn’t know he had. Essentially when he has to deal with issues that trigger his disorder – for my son that’s professors and peers, classwork and emails – he is flooded with chemicals that tell him he is facing a bear. That anxiety-ridden fight-or-flight sensation then gets paired with, “Everyone else can do this. Why am I such a freak? I must just be a bad person.”

Him coming home changed the straight-and-narrow path he assumed for himself, the path my husband and I assumed for ourselves, and sent us into a journey into mental health that we are still on. There are great days and there are real bad days. And this day, at the end of the worst week of my life, was obviously the worst.

The weird thing is, once that scary word of suicide was out there, it released a pressure valve for him. He talked to a crisis counselor and his therapist, we all worked together with his therapist to come up with a plan when or if this happens again, and he changed medications. Most importantly, he didn’t feel alone anymore. And I was able to stop tip-toeing around this concern that had been making me short of breath since he’d come home, and get the language for how to deal with it.

What in the world does this have to do with writing?

All of this – handling the first real trauma of our little family, realigning what we thought our lives were going to look like, navigating our country’s fucked up mental health system to get our son the help he needed – happened while I was writing Lush Money (previously called The Billionaire’s Prince), editing Lush Money, submitting Lush Money, getting an agent for Lush Money… My professional life was shooting fireworks while my family life was tough.

I’ve been in this organization long enough to know how much trauma and disarray and heartbreak authors deal with while they’re writing happily ever-afters.

So on the Monday, after a week of constant pain, a loss of 3-book deal, and my son suggesting the worst thing a mother can imagine, Angele calls asking me to give an inspiring closing speech.

Of course, I said yes.

Because as unlikely as it was, as inappropriate as it was for me to even consider giving it, the request for me to give this speech was a ray of sun. It was the light at the end of the tunnel. It was the courage and foolishness to believe that, since this was the worst week of my life, things could only get better. Right?

I am sciatica-free, my son is taking three classes at NOVA with plans to take a full course load in the fall, and in February, I signed a three-book deal with Carina Press. My first book, Lush Money, will come out in October.

Believe me, it won’t be easy
But it's surely not impossible
And as soon as you see sunlight again
Get up and fight to win.

Thank you.

Pics from an incredible retreat weekend

Me and Keynote Speaker Alexis Daria

Saturday night dance party! Photo credit: J.T. Bock

Alisha Rai, Gigi Thomas and Alexis Daria

Lunch with author friends

Keynote speaker Alisha Rai

Click To learn more about the Washington DC romance Writers…

Now What? Updates on the Publishing Journey

Last month I had BIG NEWS. BIG NEWS is exciting. It gets lots of shares and likes and newsletters sign ups. BIG NEWS brings flowers.

But after the BIG NEWS is the long slow grind of being a soon-to-be-published author. It’s a grind that I’ve craved and signed up for. But there are no flowers other than the emojis I attach to my Tweets as I sit at my desk in my yoga pants.

Here’s what I’ve been up to in the month since I announced that I signed a three-book deal with Carina Press and that my first book would be out in October:

Invited to read at Lady Jane’s Salon in NYC

I was thrilled (yes, I cried) to be asked to read from The Billionaire’s Prince at New York City’s only romance-centric reading salon. Reading in New York…yes, I will be wearing my beret. The event will be July 24, during the Romance Writer’s of America conference, and the incomparable Brenda Jackson will be the special guest. Pinch me. Then come watch me read.

Headshots

I’ve never worn fake lashes before. New photos coming soon!

Discussing new titles and series title

One of the cool things about having a signed contract is receiving official email from your publisher asking for stuff. Yes, obviously, the allure will fade, but as a person who’s wanted this for over a decade, it’s really cool right now.

I filled out sheets breaking down the particulars of the three books in the series – The Billionaire’s Prince, The Millionaire’s Rock Star, and The CEO’s Body Guard – and editorial is currently trying to save me from myself and come up with better names for the books and series. I LOVE The Billionaire’s Prince, but the other two titles are a little lame. If anyone else can come up with titles that represent the trope twisting of the books — the money belongs to the women — I’d love to hear it!

Turned in info for cover

It’s remarkable to watch this creation you brought to life while sitting alone at your computer being worked on by editorial, publicity, marketing, sales… Publishing professionals earn a bit of their paycheck working on these letters I strung together in a Word document. Weird. I sent a dense document about my image concepts for the book and I should see my cover by the end of April. You can check out their image inspirations here.

See more images that inspired The Billionaire’s Prince on Pinterest

Writing and editing

Among all the excitement is the continued day-to-day work. I spend the bulk of most weekdays until 1 p.m. writing the second book in the series. The Millionaire’s Rock Star is about Sofia de Esperanza– the sister in my first book – and the man who made her swear off love. It’s due to my editors in late summer. In the afternoons, I work on my editor’s requested edits for The Billionaire’s Prince. I also work on my book marketing and planning my book launch – which is probably when I feel most shaky about this endeavor I’ve started on.

But I marveled recently about how…content I’ve felt while the world news has been endless amounts of demoralizing yuck. I’m exercising again after a wicked bout of sciatica, my family is safe and healthy. But mostly, I think it’s because of the words. The words, when they come well and swiftly, provide a pillow of comfort. I’m literally doing with my life what I’ve always wanted to do.

Giving closing speech at Washington Romance Writer’s retreat

In a couple of weeks (eep!) I’ll be giving the closing inspirational speech at the Washington DC’s Romance Writer’s Retreat, “In the Company of Writers.” I’ve been going to this writer’s retreat since 2003 and it means a lot to me. It’s where I’ve made my best author friends. It’s where I met my agent. It’s where I got the encouragement to believe I could be a writer. And when I started going, Nora Roberts gave the closing speech!! It’s been a few years since she’d given it, but I still feel like I have some BIG shoes to fill.

With me luck!

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Gantz Family Vineyard: Where "Lush Money" Was Born

Gantz Family Vineyards, the inspiration for “Lush Money”

My mother and stepfather did the craziest thing in 2009. They bought a vineyard. Or rather, they bought land with the intention of planting a vineyard.

I was OPPOSED! They had this awesome house on the beach south of San Francisco and why in the world would they want to move away from the city and farm? I didn’t get it, I didn't want to get it.

And then…I fell in love with it.

They asked me to set up a website and social media for their newly christened vineyard, Gantz Family Vineyards, and by some weird happenstance, I realized that I liked doing more than drinking wine. I liked learning about wine growing and winemaking. I liked tracking the evolution of our little vineyard. I liked being a minuscule part of this story about fruit being grown from soil and sold to one of the most prominent Pinot Noir winemakers in the United States. I liked helping my stepdad in our small, personal winery.

And honestly, who’s going to be the butthead that resists going here for family vacations?

Gantz Family Vineyards grows fruit in the Russian River Valley, Sonoma County, California

We grow 4.5 acres of Pinot Noir

Clay and Celeste Gantz

My parents named the blocks after the grandkids.

So it was with true good fortune that I was there in 2015 when the idea of Lush Money—What if the billionaire was a woman?—came to me. As I searched for a profession for my struggling prince, I looked up from my phone and saw the sunlit vineyards. Suddenly, my prince was a world-renown viticulturist (vine scientist) with a kingdom of struggling vineyards. Suddenly, I had a self-made billionaire businesswoman and a prince with his hands in the dirt.

It was simple and complex and delightful and a way to honor this crazy thing my parents had created.

Last week, I had the supreme luck to announce the sale of The Billionaire’s Prince (now called Lush Money) to Carina Press while visiting my parents at Gantz Family Vineyards. I was taking a UC Davis class for growers with my stepdad, being taught by the same academics who would have been friends with my prince. It was all a little surreal and dreamlike.

Kind of like being a midwestern girl who suddenly finds a California vineyard plopping into her lap in her 30s. Thanks so much for the opportunity, Mom and Clay! Even if I was a bit of a butt about it in the beginning…

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I'm Going to be Published!!!!

The Billionaire’s Prince, an enemy-to-lovers tale about a billionaire businesswoman, coming Fall 2019.

Writing is always that thing I could do. Other people are good with numbers or can hit a three-point shot or can tie a scarf and instantly look Parisian. I could write. It was my thing.

In the fourth grade I told my mom I wanted to write but — a pragmatic little Virgo — I was afraid I wouldn’t make a living at it. She suggested that I pursue journalism.

So I did. I got a journalism degree at a fantastic university and went on to work for an incredible paper. Journalism forced me to write quick and with impact and — side note — it also was how I met my husband. So, bonus! I’ll never regret the side trip into journalism.

But now, after writing “arthur” when the kindergarten teacher asked what we wanted to be when we grew up, after learning how to spell “author” and practicing at it pretty hard core for the last 18 years, after a whirlwind year of finishing a book and signing with agent extraordinaire Sara Megibow, it’s finally happened.

I’ve been signed. I have a publisher. My book — with a cover and a dedication and a price tag — will be available to purchase. And not just one book. I’ve signed a deal for three books.

I’m not crying. You’re crying.

My book, The Billionaire’s Prince (now called Lush Money), will be published fall 2019 with Carina Press. The Billionaire’s Prince is an enemy-to-lovers story about a billionaire businesswoman who makes a baby deal with a prince in muck boots. It’s outlandish. It’s a tiny little story about how hard we work to protect our hearts. It has winegrowing and greasy pizza eating. We travel from the top corner office of a San Francisco skyscraper to the vineyards of a village kingdom in Spain to a small town in Kansas.

I hope you fall a little in love with my billionaire and prince. I hope you get a little hot as they “work” on their baby deal.

Tee-hee.

You can keep up-to-date on what’s happening with The Billionaire’s Prince — and receive a free book — by signing up for my newsletter here. However, if you just want a reminder when The Billionaire’s Prince is available for purchase, you can sign up here.

Regardless, thank you. Thank you for reading. Thank you for caring. Thank you for cheering me on as I’ve loved and hated this journey.

Thank you.

What I Did For My Christmas Vacation...

Check out my new fan fiction story on Wattpad

Click to read my new fanfiction story

I’m a huge fan of fanfiction and Wattpad, both which gave me back my joy of writing several years ago. During this holiday season, I decided to entertain myself by working on a fanfiction story about one of my favorite shows, Leverage.

Leverage is a fun Robin Hood-inspired heist show about a crew of bad-guys-gone-good who use their criminal skills to help those victimized by people in power. Starring Timothy Hutton as the Leverage crew mastermind, each episode brings together a hitter, grifter, hacker and thief. The hitter, Eliot Spencer played by actor Christian Kane (shown above), is a tough guy with a heart full of repentance. Joss Whedon fans might recognize him from Angel, where he played tortured attorney Lindsey McDonald. Or course, my story HAD to be about him.

Here’s the summary:

It's not Eliot's fault that the lady keeps showing up at their Boston pub to stare at him with admiring eyes. But she's scaring away Leverage's justifiably nervous clients and Nate has had it -- it's not Eliot's fault, but now it's Eliot's responsibility to get rid of her. What should he do when the lady he's trying to dissuade becomes the woman he wants to put his hands on? And then what should he do when she becomes Leverage's newest client?

My attempt at giving Eliot a Happily Ever After...

The story isn’t complete — the fun part of Wattpad is writing serially and posting regularly. I’m posting every Tuesday and Friday. And a big part of the story is done. Hope you like it!

A preview…

You Know Better, Babe, Than To Look At Me Like That

by Angelina M. Lopez

"You're going to have to go talk to her," Nate said matter-of-factly as he raised the rocks glass to his lips.

Although there were several women in the lowlit Boston pub, the whole Leverage team knew who Nate was talking about.

Eliot scowled. "Why do I have to talk to her?"

Nate didn't raise his eyes from the golden liquid in the glass. "She's scaring away our clients."

Eliot jabbed his finger at the longhaired blond smiling at him from across the table. "Then make Parker do it. Parker's crazy will drive anyone away."

"I like her," Parker chirped back. "She stares at Eliot the way I stared at the Hope Diamond."

"She's right, man," Hardison said, leaning back in his chair with his shit-eating grin. "She gives you the same look I gave my Nana's cooking."

"Hardison..." Eliot growled as he glared at the whiz kid.

"Look, Eliot," Sophie said, laying her hands in the middle of the table to draw everyone's attention. "We can't afford to have her staring at us every time you're in the bar. The people who come to us are already living in fear. No matter how innocent she looks, the intensity of her gaze is too ... intense. Our clients can't help but notice."

Eliot clenched his lips against his teeth. "Would you do it?" He gritted his teeth. "Please."

Sophie tsked. "And humiliate the poor woman. Never. What do you Americans like to say? 'Man up?' That's right. Man up and handle it." Sophie swirled her dark, pashmina shawl around her as she stood and gave Eliot a wink before she started for the door.

The other three -- the traitors -- stood as well. Parker and Hardison stopped beside his chair.

"Be nice," Parker said, worrying her lip.

"Yeah, man," Hardison said, the same worried look on his face. "Don't 'disappear' her or anything."

Eliot's mouth dropped open. "Who do you think I am?"

Hardison just shrugged and they both headed for the subterranian pub door without looking reassured.

Nate also stopped by his chair, swirling the last of the liquor in his glass. Eliot knew it would be refilled the instant Nate got to his apartment upstairs.

"Unlike those two, I don't care how you get rid of her," Nate said without taking his eyes off the glass.

Eliot huffed. "She's just a lonely lady at the bar."

"Maybe," Nate's eyes finally met Eliot's. "But she's getting in the way of us doing our job and no one's going to get in the way of me doing that."

"Us."

"Hm?"

Eliot's dark eyebrows lowered. "No one's going to get in the way of us doing our job."

"Right," Nate said without inflection. He lowered his glass and dropped his shoulders. "Screw her, kill her, make her cry. I don't care. Just take care of her."

Eliot lowered his eyes to his hands, white-knuckle fisted against the table to prevent them from knocking his boss in the mouth. Nate was on a downward trajectory again, leaning on the drink as an excuse, giving the alcohol room to make him an asshole. He was going to have to be dealt with, sooner than later if Eliot had anything had to say about it.

But the man wasn't wrong.

Even now, with his back to her, Eliot could feel the woman's eyes on him. She had a way of doing that, making him aware of her although she'd been the one who'd started it all with her long, absorbed, unashamed looks. She didn't do it all the time -- that would have given him the creeps. But even if she only looked at him 3 or 4 times while they were both in the bar, the looks were always so unabashedly fascinated that Eliot felt the glow of them. They were like a warm medal against his skin.

She was a funny little thing. She'd shown up that first night a month-and-a-half ago, swathed against the Boston winter in an oversized anorak and sweater, baggy jeans and snow boots. Only her coat had come off as she sat at the bar and drank her bourbon neat, pulling down her hand-knitted scarf to take sips out of her glass as her dark brown eyes widened then watched Eliot play darts across the room. Being aware of his surroundings -- and every person in it -- was Eliot's job. And he was aware of the way she watched him like he was her favorite recreation.

But he didn't approach her like he'd approached the other women who'd watched him at that bar with hungry eyes. She wasn't his type. Her nose was a touch too long, her eyebrows a bit too dark and too much of a contrast with her red-brown-blond hair. Her hair was long, but it was always a mass of kinks and curls barely restrained in a thick braid or crazy bun. It felt like one touch and that hair would spring out and hurt somebody. She was small, shorter than him, and Eliot couldn't imagine she was hiding much behind the layers of sweaters and flannel shirts and scarves and oversized pants she always wore.

He hadn't realized he was looking forward to warmer weather.

But this had to end. Now. The last two clients had, unfortunately, picked up on the woman's constant gazes over at their table. Sophie was right. Her interest was too strong for the two people -- a woman who'd recently lost her husband because of toxic paint he'd been forced to work with; and an accountant who was terrified of being caught as the whistleblower against a local casino -- not to notice. They'd both left terrified, certain they were being watched. Nate and Sophie were still trying to convince the accountant to let their crew help.

Eliot stood and kicked back his seat before he could lose his nerve. He was a total fucking coward when it came to letting down women. In the past, he could have just drummed up a trip to a third-world country to get him out of a fix. But now, because of the people who needed Leverage, because of Nate and Sophie and Parker and, yes, even Hardison, he had to stick. And it looked like the lady wasn't giving up sipping her two bourbons, neat, several times a week at the bar anytime soon.

Eliot turned around and felt more than saw her wide, chocolate-brown eyes move over him, just like he knew they would. When their eyes met, she smiled tentatively, sweetly.

He couldn't fault her mouth. It was full and wide and quick to grin at the bartender or someone asking if the seat next to her was free. Eliot usually liked women in makeup with paint on their lips. But her lips, plump and magenta, looked good naked.

Her eyes never faltered as Eliot started walking toward her.

And THAT was the other reason Eliot had never taken her up on what she'd been offering for the last month-and-a-half. Because the coyness and tease that was so much a part of the game with other women, the little glances and glimpses of skin and accidental brushes, was nowhere to be seen with this woman. She had no game. She looked at him with ease and steadiness, her eyes telling him that she enjoyed -- was even fascinated -- by what she saw.

With so many shadows in his life, there was something equally exhilarating and terrifying in the open wondering gaze that watched him as he approached. But all Eliot could offer women was his don't-give-a-damn grin, his suggestive eyes, his growly voice making promises, and a single night in his bed making them come true.

Which is why he came to this woman without a smile.

"Hi," he said as he leaned against the bar next to where she sat.

"Hello," she replied, her voice throaty and, to his surprise, touched with a British accent.

Eliot immediately turned to the bartender. "Brian, give her a Basil Hayden, neat, and I'll have a Guinness."

"You got it, Eliot."

Eliot turned back to face the woman. Her face was scrubbed clean and her hair was pulled back, barely restrained in a braid that had a fuzz of curlicues escaping down its length. She was wearing an old fisherman's sweater and she'd worried little holes in its cuffs where her thumbs poked through. "You haven't had your second drink yet, have you?"

She grinned softly. "No. How did you know?"

"You're not the only one keeping an eye on things."

When, for the first time, she dropped her eyes away from him and looked down at her lap, he regretted the grim expression on his face.

"I'm sorry," she said, poking her thumbs together in her lap. "I must seem very foolish."

She seemed very young. He figured she was near his age -- late 20s, early 30s. But her inexperience made him feel like her grandfather.

"Foolish? No," Eliot said despite himself. "I'm flattered."

She raised her eyes to look at him. He'd caused her dark brows to crease into a worried frown. Her nose, he realized, had a little ball at its tip. It was cute.

"You must know that I'd never expected you to come to me," she said. "It's simply...I enjoy the look of you. You're very soothing."

Eliot surprised himself with a laugh. He leaned his head back, felt his long hair slide away from his face. "I've been called a lot of things by women, sweetheart," he said to the ceiling. "But I've never been called soothin'."

She was like a lollipop at the doctor's office; something too sweet and tempting to resist, even though you knew there would be pain after you accepted it. Her straight shooting called to him, called for him to enjoy it even if he could only do so for the next few minutes before he destroyed her hopes and sent her away.

He put his forearm on the bar and slid it closer to her, dropped his head to look down at her. She smelled of jasmine and spice, more complex than he would have bet on. "What do you see when you're staring at me?"

A liar. A traitor. A bully. A thug, thief, assassin.

A murderer.

"I see a man who loves the people he's with." She didn't even stop to draw a breath before she started speaking, looking up at him, throaty accented words coming through soft lips. "There's a spark, a chemistry between the five of you. You're the family that everyone wants to be a part of. You hide your affection for them behind your gruffness, your glower. But then you give them one of your rare smiles, when you're beating your black friend at darts, when you're showing your blond friend how to drink whiskey. I see a painfully handsome man, a man who is confident in the two feet he plants on the ground and the shoulders that bear his burdens. You forget to wear your armor sometimes. I stare at you so much because I don't want to miss those moments."

As Eliot looked into her guileless brown eyes, he heard two drinks get plunked down near his elbow.

"Well..." he drawled, blinking to clear the warm haze from his brain. "That's a lot of plain talking from a woman I've never bought a drink for."

She smiled, pulled back from him. "It appears that is about to change."

As she reached for her drink, Eliot walked away two paces to grab an empty bar stool. He slipped it in beside her and took a seat, wrapping his hands around the cool glass of dark beer. The motions gave him a minute to think, to breathe.

The actions prevented him from wrapping that braid around his fist and reeling her in to discover whether she could possibly taste as sweet as she seemed.

Family. Leverage Inc., had become his family, but one he couldn't share with anyone else. He'd thought, often, about how much his Dad would like Nate. How the man would have stroked back the few hairs he had left for Sophie and charmed Parker with his magic tricks. But Eliot was too much of a coward to go knock on his own father's door, afraid that the door would still be locked against him. So this feeling he had of the togetherness, the rightness, of this crew and their mission was one he'd kept all to himself. Until this funny little lady pulled it out of his heart and showed it to him.

He lifted his beer and clinked it against the glass in her hand. "I'm Eliot."

"My name is Sabrina."

Eliot closed his eyes and drank, the cold liquid washing away the lilt of her name. Once again, he could feel her eyes on him. It made him aware of the 10 o'clock shadow on his jaw, the strands of hair catching in the stubble as he tilted his head back. Her eyes made him aware of his throat, moving as he swallowed the beer down.

He opened his eyes and looked at her with an incredulous huff of a laugh, met her easy and admiring eyes. She was making this damn hard. "What are you doing here, Sabrina?"

She shrugged her thin shoulders in that big sweater. "What is anyone doing in a bar, evening after evening, always by themselves? Seeking a little light and warmth and human interaction. We introverts like to depend on the kindness of strangers."

Of course she'd quote Tennessee Williams at him, his favorite fucking playwright.

"You seem like the kind of a woman who'd read at the bar," he said as he watched her sip her drink. "But you've never brought a book. You don't even look at your phone."

"I can pretend to be comfortable being all alone at home."

"Do you have a cat?"

She had to raise the back of her hand to her mouth to cover the sputter of laughter so soon after she'd taken a sip of bourbon. Her laughter behind her hand was effervescent, like pop bubbles bursting at the top of the glass.

"You have me pigeon-holed as a right proper spinster, don't you?" she asked, no offense in the eyes that sparkled at him.

He motioned to the hand -- the left hand -- over her mouth. "Well, you're single."

He was sorry to have mentioned it because when she lowered her hand back to the bar, a cloud had muted the delight on her face. "Yes, I suppose so." She rubbed her right thumb over her left ring finger. She rubbed like something had once sat there, but was now lost. "I'm a widow."

Eliot took deep breaths as he watched her stroke that phantom ring. Of course. How could he have missed the signs? Her need to be around people, her unwillingness to paint herself up for attention, the groundedness of her that let her sit there night after night without asking for a thing. The simple pleasure she took in looking at him. How did Sophie miss the signs? How did Nate?

He slid his arms, crossed on the bar, closer to her. "I'm real, real sorry," he said low, his head dipped toward her. He wanted to touch her. But he didn't.

"Yes, so am I," Sabrina said, raising her eyes from her hand to give him a soft, resolute smile. "It's been two years. I'm glad to say I'm doing better. He was a soldier. Were you a solider?"

Jesus. Of course. "Yes. Was he deployed?"

"No," she sighed heavily. "It was ludicrous, a Jeep accident at Fort Jackson where we were stationed. But it took forever to be sorted. They just recently sent the few personal effects that were on him. I haven't had the strength to open the envelope yet."

"What unit was he with?

Eliot would get Hardison to look up the incident report. Even with the standard grind of military bureaucracy, an automobile accident shouldn't take two years to get resolved. He could do this for her; make sure she didn't need him. Them. Make sure she didn't need Leverage Inc.

Because now, even more than before, he knew he couldn't get involved with her.

He looked up from his wrist on the bar, flexing against the wide leather band wrapped around it. "Sabrina, I gotta ask you a favor." He met her eyes. She was so open to him. "My team and I, we help people. I can't tell you too much. But sometimes, these people are being watched. Or followed. And when you look over at us a lot..."

She slowly raised her hands to her cheeks as they flushed pink. She had that complexion, what did they call it, English rose. All creamy and quick to blush. "Oh no," she gasped, her eyes wide pools of horror. "Oh, please forgive me."

He leaned closer to her, made a concerted effort to keep his hands on the bar. "Stop it. There's nothin' to forgive," he said, fast and low. "But if you're gonna keep coming here, you can't -- watch me. I'm sorry. I don't know how to put it any easier."

She hadn't lowered her hands from her cheeks. "It's fine; it's not your responsibility to manage me. Even though..." her hands covered her eyes with a groan, "...I've made it your responsibility. I'm so sorry. Please apologize for me to your friends. I hope I haven't hampered your efforts."

The grip he had on his biceps was going to leave marks. He wanted to reach for her. He wanted to erase the last minute and put that easy, open joy back on her face. "It's fine," he urged.

"No, it's not." She lowered her hands to her lap and, to Eliot's misery, revealed the sheen of tears in her eyes. "I will make myself absent. You won't have to worry about me again." She stood and grabbed her army green anorak off the stool.

Eliot stood as well, pushing back his infernal hair as it swung into his face. "Sit back down," he growled down at her. She was small. "You don't have to --"

"Yes, I do. I would never re-pay the pleasure you've given me by continuing to be a nuisance. And I would never be able to keep my eyes off of you." Her two fingers brushed his cheek as soft and warm as duckling feathers as those big dark eyes looked up at him. "Let me do this for you."

Her size made her quick, and she was around him before he could stop her, pulling on her coat when Eliot noticed something beneath her stool. It was her scarf; the knitted black-and-white one she always wore. He cursed as he shoved the stool out of the way to grab it and then straightened and turned to the door.

She was already gone and up the stairs. Out of sight.

"Goddammit," he swore at himself. Brilliant fucking job, Eliot. Break the heart of a mourning widow who likes the look of you because you remind her of her dead husband. Then make her cry and chase her out into a freezing winter night. Real class work.

He yelled across the bar for Brian to put the drinks on his tab and, gripping the scarf in his fist, sped for the door.

Click to read Chapter Two…

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A Free Romantic Short Story For You

The Phone Call

An original short story by Angelina M. Lopez

Sam was her husband's best friend and the man who got Rosemarie and her daughters through the worst two years of their lives. Now he was Rosemarie’s best friend, and he always picked up the phone when she called, no matter what, no matter when.

But when she calls him a few days before Valentine’s Day to ask for the one thing their friendship isn’t providing, will she destroy their relationship forever?

Click below to preview The Phone Call and sign up for my infrequent newsletter to get your free copy.

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