Featuring: Geralyn Corcillo
When she was a kid in Scranton, Pennsylvania, Geralyn Vivian Ruane Corcillo dreamed of one day becoming the superhero Dyna Girl. So, she did her best and grew up to constantly pick up litter and rescue animals. At home, she loves watching B&W movies, British mysteries, and the NY Giants. Corcillo lives in a drafty old house in Hollywood with her husband Ron, a guy who’s even cooler than Kip Dynamite.
Geralyn is not only an author of romantic comedy and women’s fiction novels, novellas, and short stories, she is also an avid and eclectic reader. You can read her book reviews here on A Slice of Orange, in her monthly column Things That Make Me Go Mmmrrh . She loves to connect with readers on Facebook and Twitter—drop her a line or leave a comment here.
Miss Adventure has hit the top of the Amazon Kindle charts and has won awards for both humor and romance. Keep scrolling to read an excerpt …
MISS ADVENTURE
Can a daydreaming city girl find her backbone by going on daring adventures with an adrenaline junkie?
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CHAPTER 7
“Yes, Lisa. Naked.”
“Naked, naked?” I swallow, then take a deep breath. He can’t be serious. “You want my naked skin touching this thing?” I look at the long, black wetsuit in my hands. We drove all the way back to his house up in the hills of Glendale just to get this stupid suit that’s not going to fit me, no matter how naked I get.
“It’s the best way.”
“So there are other ways.”
Jack sets the duffle on his kitchen table. “Yes,” he says, unzipping the bag. “Some people wear a swimsuit underneath, or Under Armour.”
“Armor?” It’s for the sharks, I know it!
“Under Armour. It’s like a spandex body suit.”
“Let me do that, then. You must have one lying around here somewhere.” I look around Jack’s house. Nothing.
Just beyond the big wooden table in the kitchen, the room morphs into a family room. But the kitchen looks like a normal kitchen with a fridge and stove and all, and the family room just looks like a regular family room. Couch, TV, coffee table. No spandex lying around anywhere.
I wander into the living room at the front of the house and hit pay dirt. At least, potential pay dirt. The spacious room, which I think is supposed to be part dining room—the demarcation is unclear because of the mountain bike and the saddle—is messy with gear, junk, and working-type stuff, just like his office at Into the Wild.
Jack follows me.
“Lisa, do you know the point of a wetsuit?”
I don’t answer. As far as I’m concerned, a wetsuit is for wearing if you’re on a show like The Man from Atlantis or if you work at Sea World.
He gets in front of me, right in my face. “It keeps frigid water away from your skin.”
“But you were in shorts this morning!”
“I had to test the suit, and I didn’t want to wait until July. Anyway, I’m a little more used to it than you are.”
“Then the body armor stuff will keep me a lot warmer than wearing a wetsuit with nothing on underneath.”
“Wrong.”
In that one word I hear the thumping finality of a guillotine.
“Anything you wear underneath,” he explains, facing me squarely, “even a bathing suit or a pair of underwear, allows air between the suit and your skin.”
“Letting your skin breathe is good. I saw that James Bond movie where—”
“Air in a wetsuit is bad,” he says, cutting me off as he heads back to the kitchen.
I have no choice but to follow him. Back to the kitchen. Back to the duffle of doom. He starts unloading the bag. A small yellow box, flippers.
“It increases the chances that ice-cold water can seep in,” he continues. “And guess what, Lisa?” He turns to meet my eyes. “It won’t seep back out again. You’ll just freeze your ass off until you become a medical risk. Then I’ll bring you back.”
He turns his attention back to unloading the duffle. Is that a bulletproof vest? What kind of adventure is this going to be? Beginners have to deal with bullets? He must be purposely trying to scare me to see if I’ll back down.
I look back at the wetsuit I’m holding. It looks so much slimmer than I feel.
“So, I just get naked and squeeze in?”
Jack hands me the little yellow box. “This should help.”
I look down at it. “It’s cornstarch.”
He taps his nose. “Full marks for being able to read your native language.”
I look at him. I’m guessing he doesn’t want me to bake a cake with it. “Thanks?”
“Use it like talcum powder.”
I am so totally screwed. “Where do I suit up?”
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Thanks! So sweet to be featured 🙂