I’m thrilled to welcome Sylvia Day to Frolic via a video interview to talk about her latest romance, Butterfly in Frost, which is a standalone book in the world of her Crossfire series. This love story is intriguing, emotional and downright unforgettable, and I was hooked from the very first page and didn’t want to put it down. In fact, I am still thinking about these characters and this book weeks after finishing it.
Butterfly in Frost Exclusive Excerpt:
A quarter mile farther, there’s a street to the right leading to Dash Point. Beyond that and straight ahead, the road slopes back down and around until it’s at water level. Redondo Beach is there, as is Salty’s, a restaurant on stilts in the water with expansive views of Poverty Bay and beyond. I’m about to wax poetic about Salty’s seafood chowder when a runner dashes around the corner at a full sprint. His sudden appearance rattles me. A closer look makes me freeze midstride. My breath locks in my lungs.
There are too many things to register at once, so my mind attempts to absorb the whole man. Dressed only in black shorts and shoes, he is a visual feast of deeply tanned skin, intricate sleeves of tattooed art, and sweat-slicked, flexing musculature.
And his face. Sculpted. Square-jawed. Brutally, breathlessly handsome.
Roxy, now a few feet in front of me, gives a low whistle. “Hot damn.”
The sound of her voice reminds me to breathe. My skin feels hot and damp with perspiration. My pulse has quickened beyond what I could blame on exertion.
He doesn’t see us at first, even though he’s running in our direction. His mind is elsewhere, his body on autopilot. His long, strong legs devour the asphalt beneath his feet. His arms swing in a rhythmic, controlled tempo. It’s impressive how gracefully his body moves at such speed, aerodynamic and efficient. There’s both beauty and power in the effortlessness of his stride, and I. Can’t. Stop. Staring. I know I’m doing it and should look away, but I can’t.
“Are you seeing this?” Roxy asks, apparently unable to look away, either.
Our trances are broken by frantic barking. Bella and Minnie have spotted the stranger running full tilt in our direction.
“Hey,” Roxy corrects Bella, pulling her closer. “Knock it off.”
But I’m still too absorbed to react in time. Minnie decides to run for it. Her leash slides out of my hand as if I didn’t have a grip on it at all. She’s gone before I can catch her, her stubby legs moving so fast that they’re a blur, on a collision course with him.
“Damn it.” Now I’m running toward him, too, and he sees me. He shows no surprise when he’s pulled from his thoughts to find two gawking women and their out-of-control dogs. The hard line of his mouth tightens as he shifts from looking distracted to laser focused. And he doesn’t slow down.
Primitive instinct spurs me to evade, escape. He’s like a raging cyclone hurtling toward me, and self-preservation demands retreat.
“Minnie!” I shout, swiping a hand down toward the leash while running. I miss the target. “Damn it.”
“Minnie Bear!” Roxy snaps, and the tiny dog instantly skids to a halt and pivots to run back to her human.
I’m nearly as agile. I shift direction to dodge the man who’s charging at me, crossing to the other side of the street.
Roxy’s panicked shout of my name turns my head . . . just in time to see the Chrysler 300 barreling straight for me.
Adrenaline spurts, and I surge forward, the sound of squealing brakes raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I’m hit from behind with enough force to propel me off the road and onto my neighbor’s lawn.
Winded and still terrified, it takes a few seconds to realize I’m okay.
And that the hot, hard, sweaty hunk of a man I’d been running from is on top of me.
“Are you crazy?” he snaps, glaring down at me.
I recognize that he’s beyond angry. Also that he’s even more gorgeous up close.
His eyes are beautiful hazel, emerald green with bursts of gold radiating from the center. He’s got ridiculously thick eyelashes, so full and dark that it’s almost as if he’s wearing eyeliner. His brows, too, are strong and bold, arching over those luminous, furious eyes. He’s got cheekbones I’d kill for and lips that are pursed into a tight, stern line.
He shakes me. “Are you listening to me?”
I am, yes, analyzing the husky gruffness in his voice. Jazz bar, I think. His speech is flavored with whiskey and tobacco.
He’s straddling me, dripping sweat on me, and I feel like I’m attached to a defibrillator, with sharp painful currents jolting my entire body to life. My chest is heaving with the harshness of my breathing, and every breath carries his scent. Citrus and pheromones and hardworking, healthy male.
“Teagan,” he growls, pulling me up by my shoulders. “Say something.”
Biceps—holy shit is the man built—and pectorals flexing under inked skin and rows of abs.
“Teagan.” Roxy stands at his shoulder, fighting to hold Minnie and Bella back. The girls may be a different species, but they want to crawl all over him, too. “What the hell were you thinking?”
He lowers me back to the ground and stands. “She wasn’t.”
Looking up at him reminds me of how tall he is. He thrusts a hand at me, and I reach for it without thinking, feeling it a moment later when his skin touches mine and a spark of awareness hits me harder than his tackle. He hauls me up, then yanks his hand away, rubbing it absently across his chest.
“I’ve got better things to do than watch you get splattered all over the road,” he tells me, his tone glacial.
There’s nothing soft about this man. Not his body or personality. Not his face, which is far too masculine to be beautiful but somehow is anyway. And certainly not his incredible magnetism. That surprises me most of all, the sexual tension arcing between us.
I rub my palm, too, still feeling a residual tingling. “Well then, thanks for the save.”
“Yes, thank you,” Roxy says, her hand over her heart. “Scared me half to death.”
His gaze bores into me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Except my hair’s in a messy braid, my face is bare, and my eyebrows need taming. All of which makes me self-conscious. I wish I looked more pulled together. Appearance can be armor, too.
That’s what his tattoos bring to mind, I grasp—warrior’s armor. His ink drapes over his broad shoulders to cover his pectorals and shoulder blades before running down those impressive arms.
Shoving one hand through his hair, he turns his back to me and walks away.
“Hey, I’m Roxanne, by the way.” And she’s using the tone of voice that lets him know he’s treading a fine line.
He pivots back around with his hand extended, once again displaying that powerful grace. His temper runs hot, but everything else about him is as cool as ice. “Garrett.”
“Nice to meet you, Garrett.” She shakes his hand, then sweeps her arm toward me. “And this reckless lady is Dr. Teagan Ransom.”
Garrett’s eyes narrow on her; then he shoots a disbelieving look at me. When he turns his attention back to Roxy, it’s a decisive dismissal. “Keep your friend out of the street, Roxanne.”
Then he’s off and running, disappearing over the edge of the road as quickly as he’d appeared.
About Butterfly in Frost:
Once, I would never have imagined myself here. But I’m settled now. In a place I love, in a home I renovated, spending time with new friends I adore, and working a job that fulfills me. I am reconciling the past and laying the groundwork for the future.
Then Garrett Frost moves in next door.
He’s obstinate and too bold, a raging force of nature that disrupts the careful order of my life. I recognize the ghosts that haunt him, the torment driving him. Garrett would be risky in any form, but wounded, he’s far more dangerous. I fear I’m too fragile for the storm raging inside him, too delicate to withstand the pain that buffets him. But he’s too determined…and too tempting.
And sometimes hope soars above even the iciest desolation.
About the Author:
Sylvia Day is the #1 New York Times, #1 USA Today, and #1 international bestselling author of over 20 award-winning novels sold in more than 40 countries. She is a #1 bestselling author in 28 countries, with tens of millions of copies of her books in print.
Visit the author at sylviaday.com.