Meet MFRW Author Rebecca Hunter.
Rebecca is a writer, editor and translator who has always loved to read and travel. Rebecca has, over the years, called many places home, including Michigan, where she grew up, New York City, San Francisco, and, of course, Stockholm, Sweden. After their most recent move from Sweden back to the San Francisco Bay Area, she and her husband assured each other they'll never move again.
Well, probably not...
Connect with Rebecca here:
www.rebeccahunterwriter.com
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Rebecca-Hunter-Writer/1415176695468525
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25606451-stockholm-diaries-caroline"
How did you become an author?
I've always wanted to write books, but even back in college I was already telling myself, ""you're not good enough."" Fast forward... well, a few years. Still wanted to write books. Still didn't think I was good enough. Finally, I decided that it didn't matter anymore whether I thought it was good enough!
What is your writing life like?
I'm a first-thing-in-the-morning kind of writer, and I have a daily word count that feels very manageable. And I very rarely miss a day. I'm not the introverted stereotype of a writer: I'm pretty social, and I crave a daily dose of conversation, but I also need a good dose of solitude during the day.
I generally write a book in 4-5 months... and then there's the revisions. I'm usually working on writing a new book while revising another one. I write both non-fiction and fiction under two different names, so as you might imagine this can get a little chaotic. But it seems to work for me. I guess I'm what Isaac Asimov called a "serial monotasker"!
What other type of books have you written?
I first published poetry in my early twenties, but I decided I wasn't good enough to continue (note a common thread?). Over the years, I've written a bunch of non-fiction pieces and worked as a high school/community college English teacher, so I guess you could say that my foot was in the door, but I was still just peeking in.
How did you come up with your recent series idea?
My husband is Swedish, and we have lived in Sweden twice. Over the years, I have met many, many ex-pats who have wonderful and unique, against-all-odds kinds of love stories with Swedish men... so the series was born.
Finally, about four years ago, I decided to give fiction a try. It was a mystery with multiple perspectives that dissolves into a complicated mess, but out of its ashes rose the Stockholm Diaries series!
Stockholm Diaries, Caroline
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In this sexy contemporary/New Adult romance, a Swedish pro hockey player with a rough reputation meets the American girl next door in a steamy twist of travel and adventure. Will they be able to overcome his dark past and her uncertain future to turn their sensual nights into something more?
A Swedish pro hockey player with a rough reputation meets the American girl next door in a steamy twist of travel and adventure.
EXCERPT
“Du,” he said under his breath. Then he asked, “Are you American?”
His eyes were even more intense up close. Something about their color drew her in—in fact, they were not unlike the colors she had tried to capture with her camera only minutes before. In another light, she might not have noticed them, further hidden behind a few days of stubble and a bruise on his cheek that she hadn’t seen earlier. But he looked at her again in the same way he had in the park, a way that made her suddenly feel his entire presence. And her own. And just for a moment, she forgot everything else.
He had asked her a question, Caroline reminded herself, searching for what it was. About being American.
“Yes, I am,” she said.
“That’s why you didn’t say anything,” he said softly.
She assumed he was talking about the park, about why she didn’t respond to Baseball Cap’s provocation. But Caroline didn’t want to think about Baseball Cap right now.
Instead she nodded and then added, “And I forgot my keys again.”
While the self-locking door on this flat was supposed to be a helpful safety feature, there were clearly downsides to the set-up. Especially since it was too early to wake up Veronica for the spare key. Luckily, her friend had shown her the trick to breaking in if this ever happened. The door handles were different from the knobs she was used to in her Michigan apartment: These were three-inch rods that opened when pulled down. If the top bolt lock wasn’t fastened, a slim arm could slip through the mail slot and reach for the handle. If that arm was long enough. It was time to find out.
Determined to focus on the dilemma at hand and not the formidable man only a few feet away from her, Caroline knelt down next to the door and shimmied her forearm through the mail slot. It barely fit, and she could feel the metal scraping at her skin. Suddenly, half way into the pro-cess of breaking in, she again became keenly aware that this strange man was watching her with interest. This large man with intense blue eyes. She turned back to him, and he seemed to read her hesitancy.
“Don’t worry. There’s no way I could fit my arm through there,” he said with a chuckle. They both looked down at his long, muscular forearms, easily twice the size of Caroline’s. “I just want to see if you can do this.”
She stretched her arm out as flat as possible, working it slowly through the slot. Finally, her elbow crossed through to the inside, and she bent her arm up, reaching around. Nothing but the wooden door. After a few minutes of groping, Caroline gave up. Her arm wasn’t long enough.
Slowly, she dragged her arm out and sighed. Then she looked up, once again conscious of the man’s presence. He was still watching her from only a few feet away with a look she couldn’t quite read—amusement and something else.
“Wait here,” he said, as if she had any other choice.
This time, his key found the keyhole, and the door to his apartment swung open. She watched as he retreated down an empty hall. Every Swede she had met so far had spoken English with a sophisticated-sounding British accent, the Swedish school standard, apparently, but this guy’s English was clearly American and sounded comfortable. He must have some connection there, she thought, judging from his reaction to her accent. But before she had a chance to think more about it, he reappeared with a long, wooden spoon in his hand.
“Try this. You can hook the handle with it,” he said, handing the spoon to her. “Someone might as well get use out of it.”
The corner of his mouth twitched up into a little smile, and she couldn’t help but smile back. Caroline knelt back down and wedged her arm through the opening again, spoon in hand, until her elbow passed through to the other side of the mail slot. So far, so good. The handle of the spoon should be long enough if she could get the angle right. She waved it around, but it just swished and banged on the wooden door. Closer, she told herself. She swung the spoon a little harder, but she hit the handle sooner than she had expected. With a clang, the spoon fell out of her hand.
Contemporary Romance
