Sexy, complex and satisfying!
HUMOR at its best!

Madison Lawhon, a writer and single mom, has a Bob problem. After dating seven Bobs and counting, her dating roster is coming up all toads.

A woman of faith, Madison's mother prays and asks God for a man for Madison - one not named Bob. When a psychic donut maker arrives on her doorstep, Madison decides God isn't listening. Meanwhile, her mother's wayward prayer gains strength. Soon, a stranger, Jack Graham, arrives in town.

But Evelyn Lawhon's prayer request has interference: Philip Bentley, the town playboy and Madison's past lover.

Philip has charm, intelligence and power. He always gets what he wants. Until Madison.

No More Bobs features a diverse cast of characters trapped in a zany web of good intentions, wayward prayers and escalating hormones.

A laugh-out-loud misadventure!

Cynthia Borris, born and bred on the San Francisco bay breeze, resides in Northern California. She is currently working on her next novel, To Serve Duck.

Please visit her at http://www.cynthiaborris.com.

CHAPTER 1

Alone in New York City and not a Bob in sight.  At least not one she knew.

"To me," Madison lifted her champagne in toast and after the modest applaud from her inner self, she took a sip. And then another, until the glass held only her reflection.

She looked around the five-star hotel room.  Next to the open bottle of champagne sat a bouquet of tiger lilies and peach roses with her novel, No More Bobs, nestled in the middle. Grand Marnier and Cognac truffles arranged at opposite ends of the book accented her name - Madison Lawhon like chocolate bookends. Who'd ever have known?

Bending slightly, she stroked a rose petal and welcomed the companionship. The delicate scent of celebration tickled her nose and she swallowed back her excitement. With a quick glance at her wristwatch, she backtracked the hours. Ten, nine - bordering seven o'clock on the West Coast. The kids would be expecting her call.

She kicked off her slippers, picked up the phone and entered the nine-digits. On the table, a copy of the agenda for the morning's events reminded her why she was there and sweat formed in her palm. Please someone answer.

"Kayla? It's Mom." She said, relaxed in the intimacy of her daughter's voice. "How's everything?"

"Grandma's driving us crazy." The whisper spoke volumes.

Madison sighed, "Maybe you're driving her crazy? Put her on the phone." Even cross-country, still a mom. Madison forced her ear to the receiver to take in the commotion miles away. What was that crash? Who just screamed? Maybe she ought to book an earlier flight home?

"Is that you, Madison?"

"It's me. So how are the kids?" She prepared for the he-did-what-to-whom and back-in-my-day recital. No answer. Madison amplified her voice, "the kids?"

After mom readjusted the volume on her hearing aid she spoke crisply. "Marc scraped up his knee. He'll live. And Luke got a phone call from some floozy." Madison sensed a proverb coming off her mother's tongue. "The way these girls flaunt their fannies and pierce every orifice in their bodies, it's a wonder they--"

"Come on, they're teenagers." Madison counted the hours until she could parole the kids from grandma's protective custody and changed the subject, a futile argument to two different interpretations of misbehavior.

"I still can't believe it." Madison grasped the itinerary and gazed out at the New York skyline. "I'm going to be on Awakenings tomorrow morning."

"My little girl on my favorite talk show," Mom sent her reviews. "Your father would be so proud and Jessica and Paul are so--oh, I can hardly wait."

Madison walked barefoot on the plush carpeting, her toes sinking two-inches deep into the thick pile, and dropped in ecstasy on the over-sized bed, savoring her impending nine-minute moment of fame.  She floated back into the soft pillows and stared at the ceiling, enveloped in her mother's familiar voice. So far away, yet so close.

She closed her eyes and imagined her mother's encouragement riding on the California bay breeze, scaling the snowcapped Rockies, dipping in the currents to tickle the stalks of corn in Iowa and crossing into New York City with barely an inhalation between sentences. Her presence filled the room.

"I had all the ladies in my prayer group say a special prayer so you won't be nervous tomorrow." Mom confided.

Mom how could you, she thought in embarrassment, and thanked her efforts with a simple, "I'll be fine."

But Mom was right.

Her stomach gurgled and she exhaled slowly, not wanting to disclose her nervous jitters. God had more important issues than Madison's gastric juices flip-flopping on a television studio set. She shifted the headset to her left ear and propped her elbow on the pillow.

"Is the studio paying for this call?  You're not rich and it is long distance." The reprimand lost its sting somewhere over Ohio.