Shout Out to My Arrow Fanfiction in USA Today's Romance Blog


Guess who was mentioned in USA Today's romance blog, "Happy Ever After"? 


Denny S. Bryce, HEA columnist and romance author, first interviewed me in 2015 about my Arrow fanfiction story Desperately Seeking. I didn't realize at the time that it was her first interview for her inaugural blog about fanfiction. Three years later, she's revisiting her favorite stories and chose mine to lead her column. (Click to keep reading.)


An Ode to Supportive Men


On Valentine's Day, my husband sent me flowers.

He didn't send them because it was Valentine's Day, which we'd celebrated the weekend before. He sent them because, earlier that day, I'd been on a roller coaster ride with a potential agent that ended in a confidence-shaking rejection. So my husband sent me flowers.

These, "You got this and I believe in you" flowers meant more to me than "I love you" flowers could.

This is a hard blog to frame. Woman have played the role of "supportive" for so long that it seems like it's written into the job requirement: cook dinners and rub feet and say uplifting things. So should men really get a bravo when they rise to the same standards? Yeah. First, because I believe in positive reinforcement. And second, because when both people in the equation are supportive, that's where the magic happens. (Click to keep reading...)


How to Fill the Well as a Writer


author Joan Johnston talks about the need for writers to...

..."give yourself the opportunity to fill the well so you have something to write about," in the latest issue of Romance Writers Report. I found this so inspiring. Writers cave up, have endless deadlines, and tell victory stories about how many days in a row it's been since they've showered. Many of us, no matter our endeavors, stick our noses to the grindstones and then proudly compare how little nose we have left.

Stop it. Fill the well. Writers, if the only world you have to write about is the Bermuda Triangle of your desk-couch-fridge, I'm sorry but that book is not going to sell. Everyone else, you know you need to go have a good time.

Here are ways I like to #fillthewell. I've included A TON of links. I hope they help you discover your own inspiration! (Click to keep reading...)


How Publishing to Wattpad Helped Me Fall Back in Love with Writing


In 2011, I stopped writing fiction....

I'd researched, outlined, and plotted my way into hating my writing process. My thin skin and the rejection letters didn't help, either.

But in 2014, I discovered Wattpad. Described by some as the YouTube for ebooks, Wattpad is an app that allows writers to share their work and readers to read, follow, and comment. It encourages serialized posting of chapters, and many writers write from their phones. For me, a writer who'd spent three months researching and outlining her last attempted book and then couldn't get through the first chapter, this felt like freedom.

Four years later and with a finished book under my belt, I can honestly say that Wattpad gave me back my love of writing.

How? Wattpad allowed me to: (Click to keep reading...)


Inspiring Words for Writers


The day-to-day grind of completing a book...

can sometimes leave me little time or energy for seeking inspiration. That sounds counterintuitive, but that's just the sad way my process works. But now, in the lovely lull between books, finding and absorbing inspiration is an imperative -- especially as my brain turns from "creating" to "marketing", which can be such an oppressive process.

Here are some of the recent books and articles I've discovered to me keep focused on how lucky I am to be a writer -- and away from such words as "grind," "sad," and "oppressive." (Click to keep reading.)


What To Ask An Agent Before You Sign


Imagine getting "the call"...

An agent calls and offers to represent you. After you scream and cry and run around the house, what do you ask the agent to make sure that this is the person with whom you can entrust your career?

I had no idea, either. 

With a completed book under my belt and a full manuscript out to agents, I realized I needed to be better prepared. So I took to Facebook, where I'm connected to a supportive and information-rich network of authors thanks to my years of membership with the Washington Romance Writers of DC, and asked, What's the 1 question you should ask an agent before you sign with her?

Keep reading to discover their phenomenal answers.(Click to keep reading.)


What I Learned In the Seven Years Between Completing A Novel


In 2011, I finished a book....

I sweated over it, I celebrated it, I won a contest with it, and then, when I received, like, eight rejections for it (I'm not kidding), I threw it under the proverbial bed and declared that I was done with fiction writing.

Perhaps I wasn't quite as dramatic as all that, but it still wasn't pretty.

Now, seven years later, after starting a successful freelance business that forced me to write quickly and daily, after discovering the joys of writing serially to enthusiastic fans on Wattpad, and after completing a 50,000-word fanfic and a short story that I'm incredibly proud of, I've completed another book.

On Dec. 18, 2017, I gave myself the Christmas present of completing The Billionaire's Prince, a story about a sexy female billionaire who strikes a bargain with a prince. In return for three nights a month in his bed, she will give him enough money to save his kingdom. All she wants is three nights a month in his bed for a year. And his heir.

I know. Juicy.

Everything has changed about the world of romance fiction since 2011. Fortunately, everything about how I write has changed, too.(Click to keep reading...)


The Billionaire's Prince. A sexy romance.


A new Original romance from Angelina M. Lopez

Three days a month. That's all the billionaire wants from him. Or rather, three nights. Three nights a month for a year, and at the end, she will divorce him with a settlement large enough to save the small European principality that means everything to him. All the wealthy CEO wants? Three long, hot nights a month in her bed. And his heir. 

The Billionaire's Prince: Turning the standard sexy billionaire story on its ear.

January: Night 1

Mateo Ferdinand Juan Carlos de Santos y Esperanza -- the "Golden Prince," the oldest 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 drying mud of his muck boots on the pristine white office carpet where he waited. But he didn't. Under the watchful gaze of the executive assistant, who stared with disapproving eyes from his acrylic standing desk, Mateo kept his muck 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 leather 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. In what seemed like the favorite part of his job, the assistant hustled to the chrome and white-frosted-glass doors and pulled one open with a flourish. The dirt he sniffed at on the carpet he didn't seem to mind so much now as Mateo felt the man's eyes travel -- lingeringly -- over his dusty jeans and worn UC Davis Aggies 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 going to take his cap off now than he'd been willing to change out of his muck boots when the town car showed up at his lab on campus, his father still screaming over the phone about why Mateo couldn't refuse.

The chrome 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, lush faux fur pillows and acrylic side tables. This office at the top of the 55-floors-high Medina Building was opulent, self-assured. Feminine.

The office was empty.

He'd walked in the Rose Garden with the President and kissed the Queen's ring and kneeled in the dirt with the finest winemaker in Burgundy. But he stood in the middle of this palatial office like a jack ass, not knowing where to sit or how to stand or who to yell at to make this situación idiota go away.

A door -- all but hidden in the pale wood wall -- opened at the side of the office. 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 60-year-old woman with a thick waist in medical scrubs. But "prepare" Roxanne to...


The nurse leaned across the delicate, Japanese-style desk and opened a slim chrome 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. She was staring down, writing something on a pad of paper. A sunny, tropical day -- he could see a palm tree -- loomed outside the open balcony door. 

Inwardly laughing at the farce of this situation, Mateo took a seat in a leather-and-chrome chair facing the screen. Apparently, Roxanne Medina couldn't be bothered to meet the man she planned 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 tree swaying outside 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 water 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. While 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 ratchet-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. 


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

She slipped her delicate black reading glasses up on her forehead and rubbed the bridge of her perfectly slender nose. "They're just a formality. I tested your father and sister and there were no genetic surprises."

"Great," he deadpanned. "Why are you testing me?"

She took the glasses off entirely and leaned forward to look into the screen at him. Really look at him. "Didn't your father explain this already?" A tiny gold cross swung out from the V in her creamy silk top. "We're testing for anything that might make the Golden Prince a less-than-ideal specimen to impregnate me."

Madre de díos. She was insane. His shock was punctuated by a needle sliding into his bicep. 

"¡Joder!" Mateo yelled, turning to see a needle sticking out of him, just under his t-shirt sleeve. "Stop doing that!"

"Hold still," the devil's handmaiden said emotionlessly, as if stealing someone's blood for unwanted tests was an everyday task for her. 

Rather than risk a needle breaking into his arm, he did stay still. But he glared at the screen. "I haven't agreed to any of this. You can't have my blood and you can't have my hair. I just came here to tell you no."

"The King promised..."

"My father makes a lot of promises. Only one of us is fool enough to believe them." (Click to keep reading...)