out of luck, money, and patience. Arriving in Silverton, Texas, she’s
bet her last dime on the launch of her craft brewery to get her life
back on track. Despite her vow to stay focused solely on the beer
business, one man manages to capture her heart. Can she trust him?
his neighbors. His greatest trouble is keeping his brother on the
right side of the law. When Bo McKenzie sweeps into town, she rouses
his passion and provides the spark his life has been missing.
Whatever happened before she came to Silverton has left her guarded
and suspicious. Can he break down her defenses?
could destroy the brewery and force Bo out of town for good –
unless Drew can find a way to convince her to stay.
not boasting. I just figure that if you’re reading this, you’re
looking for more than how wonderful life is as a writer. You get
enough of that elsewhere. Ditto for political rants, how to lose
thirty pounds in a week, and creating gorgeous crafts with nothing
more than twine and soup cans. My goal is to connect with you, dear
reader, even if you’re not a writer, not a New Yorker, not a mother,
not a female. We’re human (unless one of us is a spambot), and what
we have in common is flaws. So here are a few more of mine:
I sing all the time. I sing songs most people don’t know–jingles from
television, crazy stuff I used to listen to on Dr. Demento, Broadway
and movie soundtracks, and I can even bum-bum-bum through
instrumental music. I sing in the car. In the shower. While I’m
grocery shopping. And I headbop while I sing. When I’m not singing, I
talk to myself. Just ignore me and move on. You get used to it after
I don’t eat my vegetables. Seriously. I only started eating salad about
ten years ago, but I’d still rather have a cookie.
Given the option, I would live in a mall where I would never have to worry
about freezing temperatures or too much sun. I’m extremely
fair-skinned and could burn under a 60-watt light bulb.
I can’t sleep without background noise so the television’s on all
night. If it’s too dark and too quiet, all I have are my thoughts.
And even *I* don’t want to be alone with my thoughts.
Don’t ask me to Zumba, line dance, or march in the parade. I have
absolutely no rhythm.
I color outside the lines. Not because I’m a rebel, but because I suck
as an artist. My artistic ability is limited to being able to draw
Snoopy sleeping on his doghouse. And I don’t even draw that
Regrets. I have more than a few.
My favorite activity is sleep, and I’m pretty good at it. I don’t clock
a lot of hours, but I can powernap like a Persian cat and rejuvenate
within ten minutes.
I consider shopping and dining out excellent therapy for anything wrong
in my life.
My feet are always cold. Always. My husband of more than a quarter
century claims it’s because I’m an alien sent to Earth to destroy
him. (He might be right about that.)
Coming to my house for a visit? Unless you’ve given me plenty of advance
notice, be prepared. My floor will not be vacuumed, there will be
dishes in my sink, and I only make my bed when I change the sheets
once a week (I’m climbing back into it ASAP. Why make it?)
Housecleaning is not high on my priority list. Okay, to be totally
honest, it’s not on the list at all.
I can resist anything…except ice cream.
Since this is our first date, I figure I’ve revealed enough secrets for
now. But if you’ve read this bio and think I might be the author for
you, pick up one of my books or stalk my website
Planting her fists on her hips, she faced him. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were when we met?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t see any point. I saw the way you looked at Cooper when you found out he was the sheriff. You had your mind made up that we were a bunch of country rubes you couldn’t trust.”
“That’s not true!”
“Yeah, it is.” He waved off her outrage. “Don’t worry about it. You’re new here. I’d imagine you learned to keep your guard up living in New York all those years.”
A thousand clever retorts settled on her tongue, but he was, for better or worse, her lawyer. She needed him. At least, until they were up and running and showing a profit. Oh, honey, you want him for more than his legal briefs, her libido chided her. You got a bad case of the hots.
Maybe, but her sane side, still scarred and shamed after Rob’s betrayal, warned her about chasing any romantic inclinations. You’re done with men, remember? Focus on the brewery and only the brewery. Nothing else matters.
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