Flamingo Place
Play with the bad boys…Take away the entourage, the bad attitude and the bling, and Tre Monroe was everything Jen St. George had ever wanted in a man–he was handsome, rich and he knew the kind of loving she needed. But her hip-hop, playboy neighbor lived hard, and she had no time for that.But don't take them home!Still, there was more to him than just the facade. Yet, Jen didn't know if she could risk her heart to a man who moved so fast. She'd have to teach him to enjoy slowing down and taking his time. Especially if she made it worth his while….
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DEAR JENNA ADVICE COLUMN
The Flamingo Beach Chronicle
Dear Readers,
Love sneaks up on you when you least expect it. And believe me, Iâve kissed enough frogs to know that not every one is a prince! Just because a man is tall, dark and sexy, and fabulously rich, doesnât mean that heâs all that.
Take my next-door neighbor Tre Monroe. Heâs a hunk, he makes good money (he even drives a Porsche), but the man is a D-O-G. Could it be that his playboy persona hides the soul of a romantic?
Keeping it real,
Jenna
P.S. Perhaps you can teach an old dog new tricks!
MARCIA KING-GAMBLE
was born on the island of St. Vincentâa heavenly place in the Caribbean where ocean and skies are the same mesmerizing blue. An ex-travel industry executive, Marciaâs favorite haunts remain the Far East, Venice and New Zealand.
In her spare time, she enjoys kickboxing, step aerobics and Zumba, then winding down with a good book. A frustrated interior designer, Marciaâs creativity finds an outlet in her home where nothing matches. She is passionate about animals, tear-jerking movies and spicy food. She serves double duty as the director of member services at a writers and artists institute in South Florida, and is the editor of Romantically Yoursâa monthly newsletter.
To date, Marcia has written twelve novels and two novellas. She loves hearing from fans. You may contact her at [email protected] or P.O. Box 25143, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33320.
To Emily Martin with heartfelt thanks. Youâre the best unpaid assistant a woman could ever hope for.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Flamingo Beach, where the living is easy. Nothing ever changes here except for the population.
If youâre young and single, Flamingo Place, the fancy new condominium, is where itâs at. Youâll need to be over thirty though, and you canât have children. Plus your income needs to be in a high bracket. Of course you could lie about that.
Flamingo Beach has just about everything to keep a body happy. We have restaurants, churches and beauty shops. Our inhabitants are friendlyânotice I didnât say nosy. We also have a florist. Yup, the mayorâs son and his lover are partners in a florist shop.
That, by the way, is how this story came about. Jen, the new advice columnist at the Chronicle, used a word to describe our florist and people got ticked. DâDawg, a hot radio personality, jumped all over her, and the two went at it. Rumor has it theyâve since made up.â¦
If youâd like more information about Flamingo Beach, write to me at P.O. Box 25143, Fort Lauderdale,FL 33320, or e-mail me at [email protected].
Donât be strangers now. Come down for a visit!
Marcia King-Gamble
Contents
Chapter 1
You say your son is queer! Maybe heâs a confirmed bachelor or simply set in his ways.
Thump! Thump! Thump! The damn boom box next door was driving Jen St. George crazy.
Determined to ignore the loud rap music emanating from her neighborâs apartment, Jen continued to type. Her next door neighbor was the most inconsiderate person sheâd ever encountered and by far the rudest.
Jumping up, Jen banged on the wall and yelled, âCan you turn down your music?â
When her request didnât produce the desired results, Jen called to her assistant, Chere, âTurn on the stereo, please. Loud.â
Jenâs attention returned to the letter she was working on. She banged out words no sooner than theyâd popped into her head. This was her tenth letter of the day, and she was exhausted from dispensing advice. The moniker love diva hadnât been earned easily.
The script in front of her was beginning to blur and tiny black dots were popping out in front of her eyes. On any given day being an advice columnist wasnât easy, but she loved her job and got immense satisfaction from helping people. Giving advice had made her a popular and sought-after teenager. It had felt good to be needed. Today it still did.
âChere, where are you? Youâre supposed to be turning on the stereo,â Jen called, her irritation at her assistant reflecting in her tone. Not that Chere would even get it.
âI hear you,â her assistant called from the vicinity of the kitchen.
Dear Jenna made a living as an advice columnist to the lovelorn. This career came with a huge responsibility. People trusted her to choose their life partners or help them dump an inconvenient relationship. She was considered the diva of love because her advice was seldom off the mark. Normally her readership loved her in-your-face style.
The deafening music continued from next door. Jen thumped on the wall again.
âPlease show some consideration. Jerk,â she muttered under her breath.
Jen turned on her own stereo, making sure her volume matched 5Bâs. Now she could barely hear herself think.
Back at her desk Jen considered changing the wording of her response. Conservative Flamingo Beach, the small North Florida town where she now lived, might not get Dear Jennaâs hip-happening style. She really meant no harm; if anyone knew her family situation they would know that.
