Lena Whitaker is the heroine in my WIP Believing in Fate. She meets Jonah Rowland (who we met a couple days ago in my J blog). She’s 30, but small and petite so she is often mistaken for younger. She’s a paralegal in a busy firm and a self-described information sponge.Jonah’s first impression of her is one of how different they are.

Jonah Rowland, was highly amused by the badly disguised perusal of his seatmate, and completely unrepentant about doing some covert observing of his own. Though she had to of been near to his own age, as she was clearly a working professional and not a college student, the woman beside him was tiny. She was barely the size of your average 12-year-old. He’d bet his last dollar she didn’t even top 5 feet even in those ridiculous heels she was wearing. She was completely dwarfed by his own lumbering frame. A curtain of light brown hair covered her face as she bent her head to read or at least pretend to. He’d only gotten the briefest glance at her face as she scurried into the seat, leaving him only a brief impression of very dark green eyes. She intrigued him, this tiny pixie of a woman, but he knew better than to even bother. She was clearly a professional, a modern woman, who’d probably cut her teeth on so-called women’s liberation, whereas he was a very traditional man with very traditional beliefs, and he’d learned long ago that trying to compromise those beliefs for the sake of political correctness or even love, was bound to fail.

He eventually finds they have far more in common than he realized. However, he also learns that while Lena might look like a little Pixie, she is truly a firecracker. In the story Angry Nights from my One of Those Nights anthology, they have been together for some time, and Lena has begun to show a far different side of herself.



The gall of his casual assumption that she would do the dishes infuriated Lena. She couldn’t deny that he had reason for that assumption. After all, that was their usual routine. They either cooked, ate, and did dishes together, or one cooked and the other cleaned. Still, he could have had the decency to ask. She thought briefly about going into the living room and confronting him but instead slammed the faucet on hot and proceeded to rinse the dishes and put them forcefully in the dishwasher. Suddenly, the point of a knife stabbed into the palm of her hand.  She swore vehemently, flinging the knife to the floor. She snatched the drawer open to get a towel and sent it crashing to the floor when her force pulled it completely off its rails. That brought out another round of screaming and cursing. She’d left her chair pulled away from the table, and now she tripped over it, stubbing her toe. Enraged, she grabbed the chair and flung it across the room, where it hit the wall with an almighty bang.

Jonah appeared from out of nowhere, wrapping his arms around her from behind. She twisted and fought him, but the man had been working on construction sites since his teenage years. She didn’t stand a chance. For all her effort, he never budged. When she was too exhausted to fight anymore, he asked quietly, “Are you hurt?”

Lena held out her hand, bloodied palm up. Taking her by her uninjured hand, Jonah led her over to the sink, carefully stepping over the displaced drawer and an explosion of kitchen towels in the process. He pulled a paper towel off the roller and dampened it under the still running hot water. Turning to face Lena, he took her injured hand and turned it palm up again. He cleaned away the blood on her palm then pressed the paper towel hard against the small wound to stop the bleeding. It didn’t take more than a minute for it to stop as it was neither particularly large nor particularly deep, just extremely annoying.

Jonah turned off the water and tossed the used paper towel into the trash. Then, he righted the overturned chair, returned it to the table, turned it to face her and took a seat. He held out a hand to Lena. “All right, let’s go.”

There wasn’t a doubt in her mind what he meant. She stared at him in open-mouthed outrage. “No. Absolutely not. It wasn’t my fault I got hurt.”