Excerpt:

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EXCERPT FROM RISING PHOENIX by SAMANTHA SOMMERSBY

Waking to the dull hum of the humidifier and air filter, I looked at my bedside clock. It was five. I'd slept only a few hours. I reached for the remote control and then stopped myself. A part of me didn't want to know. A part of me wanted to forget, to erase the images from my mind. The images of displaced people and destroyed homes. I'd been covering the Witch Fire for three days, doing stand-ups for one of the local television stations. This morning the powers that be at the local stations got smart and decided to share footage. That left some of us free to return home and to rest. Only rest hadn't come easily and some of the reporters didn't have homes to return to. I was one of the lucky ones.

I lived in a large Craftsman located in an old part of town. A neighborhood where the streets were lined with big Washington palms, and the yards were filled with lush vegetation and thick carpets of green grass. It was the home I'd grown up in, my grandmother's home. Only these days, it felt more like mine.

My grandmother was far away from the fray; on day eighty-three of her 180-day cruise around the world. It had been her eightieth birthday present to herself. When I last spoke with her, the fires had just started. She'd been in Dubai at the time. I realized with sadness that I'd slept through her call from Salalah. I'd have to wait five days until her next stop in Egypt before hearing the latest about her budding romance with Solomon, the "younger" man from Fort Lauderdale who seemed to have stolen my nana's heart. If I weren't so happy for her, I'd be thoroughly depressed by the fact that Nana had a hot new boyfriend, and my latest dry spell seemed destined to rival the span of the southern California drought.

Climbing out of bed, I pulled open the drapes. Even here, the ash was drifting down softly, remnants of a death-like snow. I opened the French doors leading onto the back deck, then promptly closed them again. The entire sky was awash in an orange glow. The air was thick and acrid, a bitter reminder of the losses suffered, sacrificed to the unrelenting and unforgiving whim of Mother Nature.

I reached for my cell phone and checked for messages. There was one from Nana. She'd called while I was sleeping. I began to listen to it as I left the safe refuge of my bedroom in search of coffee. The sound of her voice was comforting as always, soothing, sweet, sure. I padded down the hallway in bare feet and wearing my least favorite tank top and plain white cotton panties. The T-shirt was a present from my last boyfriend. It was black and said, Freelance journalists do it for money. That in and of itself should explain why it didn't work out between us. Not only am I not a freelance journalist, but after four months of dating, he gives me a T-shirt for Valentine's Day?

The distant sound of running water distracted me from Nana's report on tonight's dinner menu and her plans for the upcoming talent show. Had I been so tired that I'd left the water running in the shower last night? I opened the door to the bathroom a warm gust of moist steam spilled out to reveal a man, hard and naked in my shower. Jackson. Captain Jackson Phoenix.

It was one of those moments where time seems to stand still; where indecision takes hold and just won't let go. I should have closed my eyes and stepped out quietly. At the very least, I should have averted my gaze and whispered an apology. But I couldn't. The man in the shower had stolen my last breath. I let the spicy smell of my clove bath gel envelop me as I watched its rich, heady lather cascade down his chest, over those rock-solid abs, to the patch of dark, curly hair that was partially masked by his own hands....