"A fast, funny and very readable novel!...I love, love, love this new, modern take on the marriage of convenience!"—Bev Katz Rosenbaum, author of I Was a Teenage Popsicle and Beyond Cool

“A feisty heroine and an endearing hero make Cover Me a joy to read! This book is for anyone who’s ever dealt with difficult parents, challenging children, found love and lived to tell the tale!”—April Kihlstrom, award-winning romance author

"With a cast of colorful characters, including her four-year-old, Libbie, and her best friend, Dulcie, you’ll be cheering Sunny on to a new life and wishing her ex-husband away when he makes a sudden appearance. Overall a very delightful read!"--MyShelf.com

"With a peppy first-person point of view and characters who really sparkle, Sunny's story is both stylish and attention-grabbing...A great pick-me-up this spring; make sure it’s on your reading list!"--Amy Cunningham, Romance Reviews Today

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee begins. “I’m your host, Frankie Went Hollywood. It’s time for Saturday Night Karaoke at The Coast, where we celebrate the best—and the worst—of pop music. First up, the incomparable Patsy. Give it up!”

A regular who sounds eerily like Patsy Cline takes the stage. Tonight she resembles Cline, too, with a dark flip-do wig, circle skirt, and neckerchief. She croons her way through “Walking After Midnight.”

“She’s so good,” Dulcie says. Her voice holds a tinge of envy.

After Patsy, a Madonna-wannabe performs “Respect Yourself.” She dances better than she sings. “Vogue” follows, sung by a woman whom I suspect is not one hundred percent female down where it counts.

Peter and Roger return with drinks. The people on stage give me an excuse not to talk, though that doesn’t stop Roger from trying a bit of non-verbal communication. I smack his hand when it strays to my thigh.

“Let’s welcome Dulcie Williams, as she channels both Warren Zevon and Linda Ronstadt,” Frankie the host says.

I cheer as she sways to the beat. Three minutes later, she has us all laughing fit to burst, because she vamps the Zevon verse that describes a perverse encounter. She really can’t sing worth a damn, but she’s a showstopper.

“Next is Sunny Montgomery, in her first solo performance at The Coast. Give her a big welcome, folks!”

I hear Roger say, “I thought your name was Sarah.”

I stand, walk to the stage, take the mic. My knees are wobbling, and flop sweat breaks out on my brow when I hear the opening bars.

No, damn it, you’re going to do this just like you do in front of the bathroom mirror.

I pretend no one’s in the room but me and let ’er rip. I pose; I sing; I dance on those silver heels like Mercury had blessed them. When I finish, I freeze, eyes closed, breathing hard.

Waves of applause and cheers hit me. I open my eyes.

I killed!

Dulcie is jumping up and down, screaming, “Sun-NY! Sun-NY! Sun-NY!”

My eyes turn wet from sheer joy. I did it. I conquered my fear and security demons and did it. Hot damn, but it feels good.

Maybe I’ll take another risk soon, despite the fact that taking risks normally gives me hives.

I skip back to the table, where the two men are bug-eyed with admiration. Actually, they look a little intimidated. I throw my head back and laugh.

“Wowie,” Dulcie says. “You’re even better than I thought you would be, and I thought you’d be fabulous.”

We high-five, then hug.

“Want to go celebrate somewhere else?” she says.

We grab our purses. Roger frowns, saying, “Can’t we talk you ladies into staying?”

We’re beating a hasty retreat from Peter and Roger when we hear the emcee say the only words that could convince me to stay.

“Here he is, folks, your favorite professor and mine, Doctor Ben Hart. Tonight he’s treating us to his rendition of, ‘It’s All Been Done Before’ by Barenaked Ladies. Give it up!”

My feet glue themselves to the floor. Dulcie’s mouth hangs open. And there’s my landlord, bouncing on his toes, moments from ripping into song.

Our eyes meet. The grin he shoots me warms me inside out.

He opens his mouth.

He’s good.

No, he’s great.

I hear Dulcie squealing. I’m silent, mesmerized.

As the applause dies down, Ben heads straight for me, moving more like a rock star than a physics nerd. Not that he looks the least bit nerdish tonight, not with his shining espresso hair, large green eyes, and muscled body. Not Fabio-muscled, which I can’t stand, but trim and fit, dressed in jeans, black T-shirt, and denim jacket.