Meet Colin before everyone else!

Finally, after over a year of writing and editing, Don’t Brake My Heart is out TOMORROW!

I have been on a journey with flawed characters. In my debut romance, My Christmas Number One, I brough Javi into the world, Latin music legend, a consummate charmer, known for flirting with anything that moves (at least that’s what the press believes and he’s heard it enough times that he believes it himself). When we first meet him, he’s performing shirtless, the guitar sliding in his sweat. His live show includes a drum solo, because he was a drummer before he was a singer or guitarist. I think I gave some readers a shock when that book came out with such a cutesy cover and then Javi leaps off the pages.

Since then, although I’ve written some real cinnamon rolls, from the single dad Yannick, who is the calmest mountain rescue officer, to music teacher Nick, who is gentle and wise and cares for his students, I’ve also written some love interests with… shades of grey, shall we say.

One of my personal favourites is Tiziano from a Taste of Italian Sunshine, who has a tongue piercing (intriguing) and is proud of his country boy roots. Piero the Murano glass artist from a Match Made in Venice is grumpy and difficult and sweary and he destroys everything he makes at the beginning of the book - and I love him to bits.

In this grand (haha) tradition, comes Colin Gallagher. In Head Over Wheels, he played some actually quite nasty tricks on Seb, when he was the new guy on the team. He’s arrogant and sarcastic and a very annoying little brother to Lori - or is that all a cover for deep vulnerability? You’ll have to decide!

When I started writing Colin’s point-of-view in Don’t Brake My Heart, he came to life fully formed. That doesn’t always happen for me, but in this case it absolutely did. He’s just him and you might have to take him as you find him.

Here’s a sneak peek from Don’t Brake My Heart, the first chapter from Colin’s point of view (which is chapter 2).

‘If there’s no pounding in ya bollocks, it hasn’t been a good day! Keep going, boys! Feel that lactate in your blood!’

Was it utterly cringeworthy being 25 years old and still having your dad training your sports team? Absolutely. Add in the fact that my dad was an Irish-Australian potty mouth with a fixation on testicles and a sadistic sense of humour and, yeah – sometimes he was enough to make me want to claim an immaculate conception.

Tempted to rip out my radio, I filtered him out instead, the world narrowing to the strip of asphalt in front of me, the cool air flooding my lungs, the sting of power in my body as I hauled myself up the mountain.

I was pretty sure I had lactate up to my eyeballs, but it wasn’t exactly something to celebrate from where I was sitting – and occasionally standing – on my bike. I could almost hear the screams as my cells demanded oxygen and my blood turned acidic. I also didn’t need my dad to point that out to me.

Another five minutes and I’d be cooked. Dad probably knew that. Maybe he’d push me anyway.

‘Amir, good progress, son. Keep it up. Two hundred metres to go.’

‘Come on, magic mo!’ my teammate Amir grunted as he passed me.

I smirked in response, rubbing a thumb across the scruff of bristles on my top lip, soaked with sweat. It had a little more ginger than the sandy blond on my head and it made me look like a baby gunslinger. We’d been ribbing our youngest rider about not being able to grow a beard and this was the result, but at least it was a little thicker than Derek’s. He looked like that kid from Sex Education – and twice as awkward.

Amir took the position at the front, ‘pulling’, as we called it. Although my legs were very aware that it was only slipstream and there wasn’t any actual pulling involved. I was still fighting gravity with everything I had.

‘Last curve. Great stuff, Derek.’

Up this high, there was still snow on the ground in June – piles of it, despite the daytime temperature hovering in the 20s. At the beginning of my career, I’d gawk and simp at the sight of the brittle summer snow in the Alps but, like high taxes and cheap beer, I’d got used to the weird stuff about life in Europe, although the socks-and-Birkenstocks thing would always be a step too far.

We were at the iconic Passo dello Stelvio, with its endless switchbacks. 24 km of punishing gradients that Dad probably thought was character-building this early in our training camp. Altitude stole my breath just as effectively as the astonishing views of stony summits and snow-covered rock debris.

But even the Stelvio came to an end eventually, the kiosks and the quaint hotel at the top of the pass swimming in my vision as the gradient finally eased. Pressure lifting, my lungs opened up, my chest expanding as drops of sweat puddled on my handlebars and the numbers on the display of my bike computer finally began to drop.

‘Don’t ease off yet!’ Dad cried.

Fucking oath. My throat was raw, but I followed orders, pumping harder to pick up speed before the descent, whipping through the milling groups of other cyclists and motorbikers who’d been allowed to stop there for a rest.

With a strangled gulp, I swallowed down the burst of stomach acid making its way up my throat. Fuck.

The radio crackled and I bit back a grimace. But all Dad said was ‘Watts are looking good, Colin.’-

My bike computer had already told me that – without the passive-aggressive tone.

Sweeping through one more bend, the air rushed at me suddenly as we hurtled into the downhill, reinflating my lungs after the crush of the high-altitude climb, beginning to fly. Dad was saying something, but I zoned him out as I tracked the hairpins, marked in my mind’s eye with angles and trajectories, accompanied by the rapid ticking of my wheel hub.

I zipped ahead of the others. It was my job to be faster, to push the limits. Dad had built the whole team around me, which was why he was such a hardarse. When I screwed up, I screwed up the whole team.

But jacking up the speed on a descent was something I was more than happy to do. It beat battling the asphalt on a climb. Tucking myself down, tight to the frame of my bike, my mind soared with my body.

Lime-green alpine meadows and ancient grey rock, jagged peaks with patches of snow – the world was enormous around me as I harnessed gravity instead of fighting it. I always felt like Magneto on an epic descent – although that was kind of embarrassing to admit and the marketing people would hate that I identified with a villain, even a little.

But I certainly wasn’t a hero.

I’m SO excited for you all to meet Colin (and his temporary moustache) and watch him race the Tour de France!

Another great sports romance, Out of Bounds, came out last week from Laura Carter - her football x cowboy Wild Card series. Happy publication day to Laura for last week!

As always, thank you all for coming on the journey with me!! It’s been a funny month (a funny old year) and I’ve been writing wildly to try to capitalise on a few opportunities, so I haven’t been around much online. Each one of you who keeps up with these missives is SO much appreciated.

I hope you are surrounded by lovely books and occasionally enjoying some nice weather.

All my love

Leonie x