In search of…

Like most authors who are serious about taking their writing to another level, at a certain point in the publishing process the services of a professional editor come into play. After all, this is my work, and my desire is for it to represent well. Of course, before I even hire an editor, it is up to me to do my share of editing and proofreading first. One of my personal quirks? I tend to think faster than I write/type, hence I often wind up skipping words. I can figure out what the word is when I review the context of the sentence. Still, it is something ongoing that I work on.

There are many blogs and websites regarding editors, whether for traditional publishing or independent authors. Theirs is a valuable service for us as authors, and in the best scenario it becomes a partnership. That being said, I would like to share my own experiences in the search for a professional editor.

As an independent author, the single biggest business expense in the process is the editing. Many seeking to be published have been discouraged by the costs of this service, so it is beneficial to shop around for one who best fits your budget and specific needs. States have websites and organizations listing freelance editors and their services. Referrals and word-of-mouth are also great sources, especially from other writers; this was the route I ultimately chose.

A good fit between author and editor is also determined by the genre(s) the editor works with; they must be in line with your vision. If you’re a romance author and the prospective editor only does horror…not a good fit. To get a feel for their editing style, I asked the editors I was vetting for a sample edit. In this process, I received a taste of their reliability. Were their responses timely? Did they follow up? Did they do what they promised to do? Were they available for the questions I subsequently had?

As an African American, LGBT author who writes about African American characters, one criterion stood at the top of the list when considering an editor: cultural sensitivity. The editor of my first novel was African American, so that wasn’t an issue. However, the vast majority of professional editors are white. As such, the nuances that African Americans bring to stories can easily be missed, and our stories pay the price for it. To my brothas and sistahs out there, these are questions I learned to ask up front: What does cultural sensitivity mean to you? Have you had experience editing novels about cultures different from your own? Have you worked with authors of color? At the end of the day, it’s my book and my story. When it comes to matters that are culturally specific, I’m the expert.

It’s a learning process for both author and editor. Their work has tweaked my novels in the right ways to make them stronger and more polished, ready for publishing and release. I, in turn, have broadened the editor’s scope with my own unique voice and observations. For independent authors, a successful collaboration of author and editor can make for a long-term partnership.


Believe in dreams and never give up.

Destiny called, and Sharon answered

I love summer, and July is my favorite month. One of the items on my bucket list is to see more of my home state–one can only see so much in the Twin Cities metro area, and Minnesota is one of the larger states. Driving in my car on the open road is not only pleasurable, but it has also given me some of my best ideas for my novels.

Two years ago, I finally made it up to Lake Itasca, the headwaters of the Mississippi River. Yes, it’s a tourist spot, but it’s still gorgeous. Last year, it was the North Shore highway along Lake Superior to the Canadian border. This year, I drove up to Bemidji, Beltrami County seat, aka Paul Bunyan country. Would you believe that the county has 400+ lakes? From there, after traveling through miles of forest and lakes, I stopped in Grand Rapids; any Judy Garland fan out there knows that it is her birthplace. Next to the house is the Judy Garland Museum, filled with memorabilia from her life and career, such as the Emerald City carriage, the gingham dress she wore as Dorothy, and replicas of the ruby slippers. On my return trip, the highway took me around Mille Lacs Lake, with fishermen and boats galore. I haven’t made it to International Falls (or as Rocky and Bullwinkle call it, Frostbite Falls) yet, but it’s certainly doable for another trip.

July has also been a productive month for me as an author. Never Give Up is ready for  the next stage of the publishing process, with its release scheduled for December. The first draft of one of my WIPs, The Right to Be, has been completed. The second, To Thine Own Self, is well on its way to completion. In addition, I have written the beginning and ending to another novel, plus the outline. That being said, here’s a shout-out to my writing community on Twitter. Your support and creative energy are awesome!


For this blog, I give you a nonfictional work; specifically, a biography. Written by Sharon Botts Garth, When Destiny Calls: Living Life With Purpose is the story of her grandfather, Rev. Henry Botts, Sr., who became pastor of Zion Baptist Church, one of the prominent Black churches in the history of Minneapolis.

Born in 1875 near the end of Reconstruction in Missouri, Henry Botts’ life is one of strength, service, perserverence and a life lived by spiritual values, not only in the pulpit, but through the ways he engaged with his parishioners and his community. Though he was subjected to the challenges which faced African Americans during those times, he wasn’t defined by them. Sharon takes us through Reconstruction, the Great Migration, setting down roots in north Minneapolis, his assuming the position as Zion Baptist’s pastor in the 1920s, the civil rights era, the growth of the Black community in the Twin Cities, and on through to his death in 1967.

As a native of the Twin Cities, the historical aspects of life for African Americans here struck home. In comparison to other major urban areas, the Twin Cities Black population (northside Minneapolis, southside Minneapolis, and the Rondo neighborhood of St. Paul) was tiny, and it was subject to the practice of redlining until the final version of the Open Occupancy Law was passed in 1969. Sharon beautifully illustrates the pivotal role the churches played in the unity and survival of the community, as well as the preparation for succeeding generations as adults and citizens. Those roles are as vital today as they were then, perhaps even more so.


I have often said, “If we don’t share our stories, who will?” Thank you, Sharon, for sharing the legacy of your grandfather, Rev. Henry G. Botts, Sr., and the life lessons he handed down to us. And for those of you who are intrigued by another unique voice of Black history in the urban Midwest, look no further than your Amazon or AuthorHouse library.







At the end of the day…

IMG_0553At the end of the day, it’s all about the love. And I for one am a major lover of romance novels, my favorite recreational reading. Some love stories are tender and sweet, some are hard-won, others are rolling-on-the-floor funny. And of course, they all have a happily-ever-after (or HEA) for the couples. With every author whose work I read in this genre, the first question that comes to my mind is, “What road will the couple travel to reach their HEA?” After that, I fasten my seat belt for the journey.

When it comes to writing my romance novels, I love the quote from the late E. Lynn Harris: “Write the books you want to read.” Of course, they are about Black male couples, with my own particular flavor. For those who are also writing these stories, more power to you. They need to be told.

June, of course, is Pride Month. This month has significance to me on a personal note, since last Friday was my wedding anniversary. Online, I have seen photos of Black male couples and some during their weddings, which is a welcome change. It’s also great to see such men as they raise their children together. What I wish to add to the mix are representations of brothas of a certain age, those of us seasoned individuals whose marriages have stood the test of time. That being said, I would like to share my story of the road to an HEA.

Eleven years ago, I was a single father with an 8-year-old son. It was imperative to set a positive, authentic example for him as an LGBT man of color, hence by that time he knew. The dating game at 56 is somewhat different than it was at 26, especially when one has a child. In prayer, I examined what I had to bring to the table as well as the qualities I looked for in a spouse. Not that I needed someone to complete me–God already took care of that. Someone who adds to the happiness I already had–that was the ticket. Shortly afterwards, my son came up to me and said, “Daddy, I’m going to find you a husband.” What can one say to that?

Interestingly enough, my little matchmaker did play a pivotal role in the events. Almost a year later, after church service ended, I walked downstairs to Fellowship Hall–and there he was. That moment when you lay eyes on your soulmate, and you know that you know that you know. As it turned out, he had seen my son before he saw me, but hadn’t made the connection.

From there, it was introductory conversation, mingling with other church members while exchanging looks across the room, and a long phone call that evening. Two months later, with my son/co-conspirator, I proposed to him in church, which was accepted. Back then, there were only a handful of states where we could be legally married, so we worked out the logistics.

The weekend before our wedding was also the weekend I first met my in-laws (go figure), and the equality state decided upon fell in between. My fiancé had already been smoked out by my family. Meeting his family was a whirlwind, and they fell in love with my son. Before we left the next day to tie the knot, my mother-in-law and I had a beautiful heart-to-heart.

The planning for this event had gone without a hitch, but for one little thing: when we left home, we forgot the ring! Upon arrival to get our marriage license, and an hour to go before meeting our justice of the peace, my family made a mad dash to K-Mart for a pair of rings to tide us over.

Trust and believe, we videotaped this journey, and our son videotaped our marriage ceremony. The biggest lesson we learned from the experience was the importance of having faith. One of the parts of the ceremony, in addition to saying our vows, has always stayed with me: “Marriage is not just having the right partner; it’s being the right partner.” At 57, I could claim both.

Having enjoyed our anniversary at one of our favorite restaurants, I’m here to say that brothas of a certain age can and do find love, one that does stand the test of time, if you are lined up on the right frequency to receive it and committed to do the work (that’s right, there’s work involved). And yes, the things you said and did to get him are the same things you must keep right on saying and doing to keep him. Growing old with my husband, watching our son become a young man, sharing memories and making new ones–it’s all about the love.

Believe in dreams and never give up.






What a difference 50 years makes

IMG_1158I may have celebrated Pride at my alma mater last month, but now it’s officially here, and with it the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall riots. All the groundwork that many unsung LGBT people did in the 1950s led up to that catalytic moment in time where the patrons of the Stonewall Inn said, “Enough is enough.” People of color such as Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera played a significant role in the riots. They no longer rolled over and played dead. They fought back. They knew that the only way they would get respect was to demand it.

Scare tactics such as raids on bars, harassment, blackmail, and putting one’s name in the newspaper as an arrestee held many in fear of living their truth. Stonewall was the first step in changing that. Taking the energy from those nights, it was channeled, transformed into organization and the founding of the Gay Liberation Front. One year later, the first Pride parades/marches took place in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles and San Francisco. This was the first step to visibility for the LGBT community and the right to be, regardless of who we love.

As an African-American high school senior in 1969, this event told me I wasn’t “the only one.” I was tired of trying to be something I wasn’t. I learned about other LGBT teens in my high school only after we graduated. What images I did see on TV and in magazines, at the time, had me questioning, “I’m gay, but where are the brothas and sistahs in the movement?” Once I came out a year later, I’d come across some on weekends at the clubs, but they were more likely to be found at the “safe space” of house parties and in church. I knew nothing about luminaries such as James Baldwin, Audre Lorde, Lorraine Hansberry, Samuel Delany or Bruce Nugent. For all intents and purposes, they were invisible in my life until after I was out, hungry for role models. Even in other social movements of the times such as the civil rights movement, LGBT brothas and sistahs were there making a difference, and yet invisible.

IMG_1334Fifty years later, the LGBT community has made positive changes in minds, hearts, and laws. Somewhere along the way, I became the role model I wished I’d had when I was 18. My family life–which now includes husband and son– debunks the myth that gay men are destined to lonely, empty lives. The community I live in, plus the people I surround myself with, is far more welcoming today. I agree with a colleague of mine that the changes are happening faster and faster. And yet, there is still much work to do. I’ve talked with younger LGBT members who know little about the significance of Stonewall and the reason we celebrate Pride, less still of the role people of color played in it. Those of us who lived through those times can make it relevant to today’s generations by sharing our stories when we have the opportunities to do so. After all, owning our truth, authenticity, integrity, personhood and dignity make for compelling reasons. At the end of the day, somewhere, a child is watching our lives. What will we give back, and pay forward?

I will be sharing more of my Very Short Stories from back in the day in remembrance. Before I do, I would like to give a shout-out to three authors for their gifts, as well their recently released and upcoming works:

Adriana Herrera–American Fairytale, American Love Story

LaQuette–Under His Protection, the Harlem Heat series

Frederick Smith and Chaz Lamar– In Case You Forgot


And now, here are some poems  and Very Short Stories from those days of “Hot Fun in the Summertime”:


Power to the people


my mustache

your full beard

full Afros

and bold dashikis

for social justice

and direct action


At the end of the day

hearts and bodies

intertwined in bliss

the power of love

kept us together






didn’t know before

’til that night

at South Shore house party

workin’ the Bop

on the dance floor


Spinners posed the question

could it be

that I’m falling in love

with you

my heart


the answer


Back in the day, a great DJ knew when to bring the music up–and when to bring it down. Nothing cryptic involved. And Hakim welcomed the slower intimacy of dance with Kenneth to Their Song: “Betcha By Golly Wow.”


“My, my, my,” Jayson purred when Maceo emerged from the steamy mist of the sumptuous bathroom. The phrase “Go big or go home” took root in a pocket of his mind. Maceo was big, all right. And Jayson had no intentions of going home.


DeAnthony had bawled with Marilyn McCoo and “One Less Bell to Answer” when he was dumped. That was two years ago. Now, he marveled at how the love of a good brotha like Deion wiped every tear away.


The sepia sketch of us as young brothas from 1975 stirs the embers of my heart. How we clicked on that first date, talked all night long. I season his breakfast of sausage, grits, and scrambled eggs with love. Opposites may attract, but similars stay together.


Wishing you an excellent day. Believe in dreams and never give up.








To Reggiori’s romance and my remembrance

Well, well, well. I wound up back at my alma mater a little sooner than I expected. That, however, is what happens when one stands at the intersection of multiple minorities, so last weekend I went back for Pride.

Yes, I know, normally it’s observed in June.  However, when a school year ends in May and the majority of the LGBT population consists of students, the celebration is moved up for a college town. I was, in a word, amazed. Rainbow flags were everywhere, on campus and all over town. The Pride parade through downtown was well attended and supported, as was a picnic in the park following it and other festivities. In spite of the slightly brisk temperatures, the atmosphere was filled with positivity and love.

As one of the very few, openly gay Black students when I first stepped on the campus back in the day, my presence lent seasoning and extra color to the occasion. In a way, I felt like visiting royalty and a link to history, since the Stonewall riots took place a mere year before I started college. Current students, of course, had lots of questions about my experiences back then and my business as an author now. Somewhere along the line, I became the role model I wished my 18-year-old self had had, and that has been a humbling experience.

Though I normally review works by amazing romance authors, today I’m here to share my thoughts on a poet from South Africa, M.S. Reggiori, and his collection of poetry, Into the Hush of the Quiet Winds. I love his gift of spoken word, and his poems, from haiku to free verse, resonate in the mind and heart. What seriously pulls at my heartstrings are his love poems. If you are a diehard romantic, this is the ticket! These are the kind of poems that have you looking at your significant other and thinking, “Why can’t you write something like this?” His love interest is female, yet the theme is universal. I, as a member of the LGBT community, have no problems doing some mental pronoun changes when necessary. By all means, this gifted poet is waiting for you to enter his world at your local Amazon/Barnes and Noble library.

In keeping with my theme of remembrance, readers, I will also share a little of my own poetry from “back in the day”:



“The line dance is on!”

Shevar calls out

our favorite portion

of Soul Train

where we play

“Count the Children”





in their Blackness

in their gayness

cool pastime

in the TV desert

of Saturday morning


Picked me up

scattered me

like diamond stars

across the sky

of an awesome August night



Moist lips

bore promise


always and forever


Thank you


for a heart

that kept

that promise








version of


college days

with my van



nonexistent support systems

the darker you are

harder to come out


And yet I did


to make

a difference

and command




teenager living

the age of Aquarius

hot fun in the



Life impacted by



Huey Newton

Viet Nam


Unaware of event

halfway across the country

altering my

life’s course


The voice of



Wishing you an excellent day. Believe in dreams and never give up.









If we don’t share our stories, who will?

IMG_1713Over this past weekend, my alma mater celebrated our Black Alumni reunion, the culmination of a year-long observance commemorating the 50th anniversary of our Black Student Union. I would be among the first to say that the weekend was amazing, inspiring, and empowering.

We had a series of receptions, workshops, speakers and presentations. Reconnecting with classmates, several of whom I hadn’t seen in 40+ years, strengthened the bond of our shared experience as Black students on campus back in the day. With the alums who graduated after us, plus the current students, we who were the history bore witness to those who carry our legacy forward, recognizing the role we will play for the future students.

Many memories were stirred as we discussed the celebrities who came to our campus such as Gwendolyn Brooks, Alex Haley, Duke Ellington, the Temptations, Julian Bond and the Fifth Dimension. The struggles may have been bitter, yet there was also the sweet in the friendships (and sometimes marriages) that developed, and the creativity involved in putting together a social life. Also, it was a time for remembrance of those of us who had passed away.

I was honored to be part of the featured events of the reunion, with a book signing of my Christopher Family Novel series. The staff at the campus book store was friendly and filled with positive energy, which added to the atmosphere around me. As for my readers, engaging with them was a wonderful way to spend the afternoon.

In sharing my experiences as an author, some of the words of encouragement we alums gave to one another were, “Keep sharing your stories.” After all, if we don’t share our stories, who will? As a man who has ancestors from the continent of Africa, I come from an oral tradition. Passing it down today at my college, however, requires us to write it down, record it, while our elders are still around to share it. Between the generations, sharing our stories was uplifting, and this current crop of students has truly made us proud. We as alumni have work to do to keep this momentum going.


That being said, in the spirit of my reunion weekend, I will be sharing with you the prologue/preview to my upcoming Christopher Family Novel, Never Give Up:



Prologue: November 6, 2012

Prentice Delaney-Ross was on a high, cheering in campaign headquarters as news of President Obama’s re-election “rocked the house.” People were hugging, cheering and shedding tears of joy all over the office. Several times he and his husband Trevell embraced and kissed and shouted. There were many good reasons to do so that night. Not only had the president been re-elected, but Maine, Maryland and Washington voted in favor of marriage equality. Minnesotans had voted down a constitutional ban on marriage equality. Having celebrated their third wedding anniversary barely two weeks ago, the victories were mind-blowing.

He had no doubt his stepbrother, Jerome Franklin-Edwards, and his husband Ariel were at home with their daughters soaking up all the amazing news, even as they listened intently to the president’s acceptance speech. The same held true for the rest of his family, especially his grandfather, Earl James Berry. Grandpa had always been a huge supporter of President Obama, as well as a staunch ally for equality and a believer in justice. He had retired from the bench in 1996, but his reputation as Judge Berry and that of his lifelong friend, Elijah Edwards, Sr., had been most influential in the circles they traveled.

“You know, when Barack grows up, he’ll look back on this time and wonder what all the fuss was about,” Prentice said some time later, after they stepped out into the hallway to hear themselves upon the conclusion of the speech.

“I imagine he will,” Trevell concurred. “Right now, he’s probably sound asleep while his grandma and grandpa are keeping up with all the commentary.” Indeed, Prentice’s mother, Linda Berry Delaney Edwards, and his stepfather, Melvin Edwards II, had doted on their newest grandson, Barack Joseph Berry Delaney-Ross, from the very beginning. Trevell’s parents were no better. Although they lived in Green Bay, Tremayne and Darcelle Ross were regular visitors to Minneapolis, showering affection on their first grandchild. As a former Green Bay Packer, Tremayne Ross never failed to talk about his grandson to whoever would listen. Trevell strongly suspected his father desired to see Barack make it into the NFL when he grew up. Even at the age of two, the brainwashing had already begun.

Prentice had witnessed this phenomenon, and he understood it well. Grandpa Berry was not above a little brainwashing himself, setting Little Barack’s sights on an appointment to the Supreme Court. It was a challenge to the couple, diplomatically holding those respective ambitions at bay so they could let their little boy be what he was, a two-year-old who was just beginning to really explore his world.

Hand in hand, Prentice and Trevell strolled down Hennepin Avenue to the parking ramp, basking in the afterglow of victory, sharing smiles and waves to drivers and pedestrians on this brisk fall night. At one point their eyes met and Prentice felt his heart break out into a melody. Twenty-seven-year-old Trevell had the total package—the matinee idol looks of a young Idris Elba, the solid build of a quarterback and a well-spoken demeanor. Prentice himself had inherited his father’s smooth Duke Ellington looks with a strong dose of Berry genes, which would make anyone stop in their tracks to see if he was real or fantasy. At the age of twenty-eight, at this moment he felt like he was on top of the world.

They reached the parking ramp near the Target Center, for the moment lost in their own thoughts. Prentice’s mind kept going back to his Grandpa Berry. He and Grandpa Edwards had said President Obama really needed two terms to accomplish what was necessary back in 2008, and they had gotten what they asked for. He had to hand it to them, for they never lost faith that this day would come. Jerome, in fact, said so, not only about the presidential election but all the other issues as well, at a time when none of it seemed possible. Grandpa Berry had known the history behind Jerome’s “gift,” all the way back to the time he and Grandpa Edwards were young men.

Though he grew up on Milwaukee’s North Shore, Prentice always felt a connection with his grandfather. Like his late father, Prentice Delaney, Sr., Grandpa Berry had both a passion for the law and the importance of family. Unlike the portrayals of so many police shows these days, he had never been so driven to the point where he totally sacrificed his family for the sake of his career. On visits to Minneapolis with his parents, Prentice was blessed to see the special side of him, the family man. As a grown man, when he and Trevell made the decision to move to the Twin Cities, he made it a point to spend lots of quality time with his grandparents. Witnessing the love, commitment and devotion they shared after sixty-four years of marriage, Prentice hoped that he, too, would have that kind of a legacy to pass on.

They stepped into their Chrysler 300 sports sedan, listening to an Alicia Keys CD as they left the parking ramp and headed out into the streets of downtown Minneapolis. Cars were honking their horns and people were out celebrating, something unusual for a Tuesday night.

“You think Sierra and Rashid are still up?” Trevell asked Prentice.

“Sure. They wouldn’t miss this for the world. The only reasons they weren’t at campaign headquarters was because Destiny was sick and it’s a school night for Little Earl,” Prentice replied, picturing his sister and her husband watching the set and simultaneously calling everyone they knew.

“You know we’re going to be going through this with Barack in a few years, just like they are.”

“Well, it’s not like we don’t have plenty of relatives to learn from. Sierra and Rashid are only two of them. Anyway, since Barack is spending the night with Mom and Mel, let’s stop by and see Grandpa and Grandma.”

“Aren’t they in Chicago visiting the Christophers?”

“They were, but they wanted to make sure they were home for Election Day, so they could vote. I’m sure they’re up for the occasion.”

“OK, but just remember that we have grocery shopping to do tomorrow and I have an early meeting.”

They passed Loring Park and the Walker Art Center before they turned off on Douglas Avenue, driving through the historic, posh Lowry Hill neighborhood. Just before they reached the Berry estate on Kenwood Parkway, they happened to see a car driving away from it at high speed. “What’s up with that?” Trevell wondered.

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it,” Prentice answered. “Wait a minute. That looks like Grandpa’s limo over there.”

Prentice braked quickly and they bolted from their car. The road was normally quiet, but tonight it felt a little too quiet for comfort. Ears alert for unnatural sounds in the cool night air, Prentice and Trevell slowed down as they approached the still Cadillac limousine. Their eyes grew wide with fear as they stepped closer, their night vision revealing the bullet holes in the windows.

“Nooooooooooooooo!!” Prentice yelled as Trevell frantically grabbed his cell phone to call 911…


(c) 2019 by W.D. Foster-Graham


Here’s to your excellent day. Believe in dreams and never give up.

Nothing’s impossible for love, LaQuette

Easter will soon be here, although it certainly felt far from it with the snowfall last week. Then again, snow in April is nothing unusual in Minnesota. This happened the same time last year, and by Memorial Day, the temperature had climbed to 100. This week, we’ve been receiving something of a do-over, with sunshine and enough rain to green things up around here. Just in time for our second season…construction.

Lately, when I have taken time away from my works-in-progress and columns, I have been on a Perry Mason movie marathon. Yes, the two-hour episodes shot in the ’80s and ’90s, with Denver as the locale. I still prefer the original series hands-down, yet I can appreciate the appeal these episodes have (while I endeavor to overlook those ’80s fashion statements). Friday night is still reserved for Universal horror classics and 1950s sci-fi. Weekends bring me Midsomer Murders, while I and so many others are on Royal Baby Watch (yes, I admit it).  Good news–another idea for a novel in my Christopher Family Novel series has taken shape, for which I have already written the beginning and the ending. My brother and sister-in-law read the beginning, and they’re looking forward to the way it develops. I give thanks for my listening ears!

In my search for authors of color, for your reading pleasure, I bring to you the steamy, multicultural romance Under His Protection by LaQuette. Newly-minted police lieutenant Elijah Stephenson is a hot, hunky African-American man in his mid-30s, son of a police officer, a product of a close-knit family from East New York, Brooklyn. Elijah is returning to duty after a life-threatening assault, filled with internal concerns about his ability to do the job after fourteen years of service. All set to work in the cybercrimes unit, he is thrown a curveball by his captain, Heart Searlington: protective duty for a high-profile assistant district attorney until his case comes to trial. If that weren’t enough, said individual was the same person who did a hit-it-and-quit-it on him five years ago, and Elijah has never forgotten that, much less forgiven him.

Executive ADA Camden Warren is a 34-year-old, equally hot, hunky white man born into a world of entitlement and privilege. His father is chief judge of the New York Court of Appeals, committed to service, but a shameless control freak when it comes to his son’s life. Judge Warren’s concept of a life path for Camden–the right career, marriage to the “right” sort of man, politically positioning himself for an eventual run at the White House–amounts to “my way or the highway.” Camden is the prosecutor against the Path to Unity, a paranoid, extremist cult who hasn’t been above eliminating witnesses against them before they can testify. After narrowly escaping a car bombing, Camden’s arrogance falls away, and he reluctantly accepts police protection. Finding out Elijah, the man he walked out on, has been assigned to spirit him away and protect him…hot mess.

And what a hot mess. With rabid cult members who will stop at nothing to find them and take them out, Elijah and Camden, using Elijah’s home as a safe house, are forced to deal with the aftermath of their one-night stand…under the eyes of Elijah’s parents, brother and sister-in-law, who unexpectedly show up at his door to visit for a few days. The very idea of renewing their intense connection of that long-ago night could also ruin their careers, particularly Elijah’s, yet the pull is too strong. And looming in the background is Judge Warren. Could things get any worse?

LaQuette spins this romantic thriller with panache. Through their psyches, she reveals to us the ways in which Elijah and Camden complicate matters of the heart that really aren’t so complicated. I especially love the scene in the kitchen between Camden and Elijah’s mother, Evelyn, which bears this out beautifully. LaQuette’s strong, positive representations of Elijah and his family inspired me. For all the divergence in their backgrounds, Elijah and Camden have a common ground, plus a commitment to justice–which ultimately leads to love.

I also love the way LaQuette treats their sexual orientation as simply another fact of life, and not part of the challenges this couple faces. The real challenges, as the story unfolds, are within themselves. Will Elijah face his insecurities about his ability to serve and protect, and embrace his love for Camden? Will Camden see what a loving family is all about, and refuse to be bullied any longer?

Yes, it’s hard-won love, and well worth the journey. For all of you M/M romance lovers who enjoy the thriller element mixed in, be on the lookout for Under His Protection, at your local Amazon/Barnes and Noble library.