Before covid, I used to go dancing with a few friends on Sunday afternoons at a restaurant on the Connecticut shoreline called Donahue’s. Over the years, I met other dancers and we became rabid regulars. The idea of three friends who hang out, go dancing, and work together grew and became part of the storyline for A Little Bit of Lust. But something was missing.

Not only was I online dating at the time, I devoured books on dating as if I were earning a PhD in the subject. Relationships, courtship, and the stages of dating? I read anything with the word “dating” in it, about sixty books in all. Despite being a fan of the happily ever after ending, I knew from my reading that most relationships had a beginning and, most likely, an end.

I didn’t wish this on my characters. Especially since I was dating a widower, and it wasn’t going well. As in, five months after his wife’s death, it was too soon for him to be dating. Need I say we didn’t work out?

So after deciding on a theme of friendship for the book, I threw in the widower as one of the friends. Well, I didn’t exactly throw him in—I chose the opposite of the man I’d been dating. To better understand my character, I researched support groups for the bereaved. In the book, my widower, Deon, hates the idea of moving on and dating. He prefers the safety and companionship of his two friends.

And so, they danced together, happy-houred as a threesome, and supported each other no matter what. Lucy and Phoebe even encouraged Deon to date, although he ignored them. Until the ice cream social, the eight-minute dating event Phoebe engineered at her family restaurant.

I loved that Deon had enjoyed a loving and happy marriage. He was afraid no one else could measure up to his wife, and that made him unwilling to move on.

Until he did. But that’s the real story of A Little Bit of Lust. Which is a romancey read. And you know romances must have an HEA. A happily ever after.

And maybe I wanted a better ending than I’d had with my widower.

In this excerpt, Lucy, Deon, and Phoebe go to their favorite Connecticut shoreline hangout on a Sunday afternoon. There they meet Steve.

“You know,” said Steve, “you and your friends are like The Three Musketeers. Always together.”

Together indeed. Lucy loved their routine. Arrive early while the band set up, grab seats, and make the rounds among their dancing friends. The band quit at eight, and they went home and got up early Monday morning to wrestle middle school kids, metaphorically speaking.

Steve leaned an elbow on the bar. “I’ve been here half a dozen times—”

He jerked back as Lucy’s best friend, Phoebe, trotted up and plonked her bag on the bar, startling them both. “Deon’s late. I don’t see him,” she barked.

Lucy sniffed and cleared her throat in a loud ah hem. “Mrs. Interruptus why don’t you?” she growled. “And hello to you, too. This is Steve.”

“Sorry, darling.” Phoebe bobbed her head in Steve’s direction, said a quick “hi,” and wrapped both arms around Lucy. “By the way, interruptus sounds sexual.”

“I was trying to be snotty.” Lucy turned up her nose.

 Steve stood and gave Phoebe his seat. “Thank you, very thoughtful.” She shot Steve a quick smile and reached for her bag. “I’m stealing this dating idea from an ad for eight-minute dating. Some restaurant in Stamford.” She opened her bag and peered into its depths. “Can’t remember where I put that ad.”

“Dibs on Deon for ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo.’” Lucy raised a hand to signal the bartender. “I think Travis is impressed by my vast knowledge of Glenn Miller tunes.”

“I’m certain he is.” Phoebe, riffling through her handbag, gave Lucy a doubtful look. “You’d better alert Deon. He just came in. There’ll be a ton of good dancers here today with this band. Competition.”

Lucy glanced over at the stage where Deon stood talking to Travis, in Buddy Holly glasses and a porkpie hat.

“Got it.” Phoebe brandished her phone and scrolled. “I forgot it was in my photos. Look.” She thrust her phone at Lucy.

“Can’t read it; the print’s too tiny.” Lucy flung her arm in the air and waved in Deon’s direction, eventually catching his eye. He wandered over wearing his customary smirk, and Lucy handed him Phoebe’s phone. “Read this, would you?”

Deon cleared his throat and launched into his favorite accent. Elvis. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen—”

“Hah, it doesn’t say that,” Phoebe protested.

“Meet your dream gal or guy. Only eight minutes to your SoulMate IRL! Here’s your chance. Ages forty to sixty-five. Follow the link for more information.’”

“That sounds like torture,” Deon said, dropping the Elvis. “IRL? What’s IRL?” He cocked his head. “Code for I’m really likable?”