Small town. Big dreams. One renovation that changes everything.
After three years of climbing the corporate ladder, Carl can practically taste the corner office with his name on the door. However, caring for his injured grandmother takes precedence, forcing his return to Keeney. But not to stay. Career-wise, the small town is a dead end, and others have their eye on that corner office.
Trading boardroom strategy for work boots and hard hats, Carl rejoins Keeney Building Supply to work as a general contractor—temporarily. He’s made that clear to everyone, including Sylvie.
Years ago, they parted ways before their mutual attraction could ignite, and Sylvie moved on, partnering with a charming developer who shared her excitement for flipping houses. However, charm can be deceiving—the developer wanted only her money, not her heart, leaving her plans in ruins.
Carl steps in, offering friendship, ice cream, and a new opportunity for her own home renovation business. Sylvie’s spark returns, and their attraction kindles, but Carl keeps his distance.
With his grandmother well on her way to recovery, there’s nothing to keep him in the small town. His future is waiting, and it’s not in Keeney.
Or is it?
A workplace romance, Fabulously Flawed is a story of the messy beauty of falling for someone who challenges everything you thought you wanted: a would-be house flipper who clashes and connects with the driven project manager determined to escape the confines of small-town life.
Hoping Carl would indeed wind up at her place, Sylvie had spent the morning in a cleaning frenzy, and her kitchen shone. There were fresh, fluffy towels in the sparkling bathroom, vacuum tracks on the carpet, and most importantly, clean sheets on the bed. Afterward, she’d collapsed on the couch.
But then she didn’t like the placement of the living room furniture, so she’d arranged and rearranged it to look cozier, and placed candles artfully around the room. To say she was nervous was an understatement. Images of Carl naked and hovering over her had haunted her dreams. She had no doubt the reality would be even better.
Part of her dream came true about twenty minutes later.
Having told Carl to get comfortable, she’d gone into the kitchen to assemble a late-night snack. From the fridge, she pulled the cheeseboard she’d assembled that morning and the wine. And not her usual box of Okanagan Porchbanger. For this momentous night—at least she hoped it would be—she’d splurged on a higher-end bottle. On a waiting tray, she arranged the cheeseboard, plates, napkins, and two glasses of wine.
Carl sat on the couch, one arm draped along the back of the cushions. She’d been right about the candles because the soft light made his dark eyes shine. Transfixed by the invitation in his smile, she walked into the living room and promptly tripped.
Moving quickly, Carl leaped from the couch to catch the falling glasses, but not before the contents splashed across his face, to drip down his chest. Cheese, crackers, cornichons, and cured meats were scattered across the coffee table that Sylvie had relocated earlier that day. Holding the two glasses, Carl blinked drops of wine from his lashes.
Sylvie’s mouth hung open as she stared at him in dismay. “Oh my God! I am so, so sorry!”
“It’s okay,” he said, smacking his lips. “I like a good rosé.” He set the glasses on the tray and took it from Sylvie’s hands. “Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”
Pain radiated from where her knee had connected with the stupid coffee table. It wasn’t bleeding, but she’d have a lovely bruise tomorrow. “No,” she replied, bending her knee experimentally. “I’m fine, but your shirt isn’t.” Soaked through in spots, the fabric was rapidly turning pink.
He took the tray into the kitchen and returned, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it from the waistband of his trousers. “It’ll wash. But do you have a towel? I’d like to clean up a bit.”
After guiding him to the bathroom and handing him a towel, Sylvie went to clean up the mess. The good news was that nothing had broken, and only Carl had gotten wet. The bad news was…she sucked at seduction. He probably had an Uber on the way, ready to make his escape. She scooped the remains of her carefully planned evening off the coffee table and got down on her knees to retrieve tiny pickles from under the couch.
She turned to look when Carl returned, and her mouth hung open again. Hands shoved into his trouser pockets, and shirtless, he was a sight to behold. A smattering of hair covered his pectoral muscles and arrowed down his taut belly. The slopes and dips that defined the muscles of his arms and chest called to her, and she rose from the floor, knowing she was staring and not caring a bit.
Author Bio:
Lynne Hancock Pearson writes fun, flirty, feel-good fiction that simmers at low heat. Set in the Pacific Northwest, they are stories of people finding their way, even if it takes a while to get there.
She lives near Seattle with two and a half finicky felines and one long-suffering husband. She is a left-handed middle child who grew up in the Great White North and is a proud member of the Métis Nation of Canada.
The holiday spirit is the last thing on my mind, and he’s focused on his new beginning. But one mistletoe moment might change everything.
Callie
Spending the holidays alone for the first time in four years wasn’t exactly on my wish list. But with a major shake-up at work and more changes than I ever saw coming, embracing my new reality seems like the only option.
And then there’s Travis—charming, handsome, and a Texas drawl that could make any woman weak in the knees. But is it too soon to start something new? I’ve been out of the dating game for a while, and maybe this season is meant for family, friends, and finding joy in my new season.
One thing’s for sure—I’m in no hurry for Christmas to arrive.
Travis
Christmas in the Northeast? In the freezing cold? Yeah, not exactly my idea of home. But turning down this job offer wasn’t an option—it’s the kind of opportunity that doesn’t come around every day.
Still, spending the holidays away from everything and everyone I love is tougher than I expected. And then there’s Callie. I never planned to meet someone like her, let alone work so closely with her.
Now I’m left wondering… is taking this risk worth everything I’ve worked for?
Have you read the award-winning UnLucky Christmas? Don’t miss the chance to catch up with your favorite characters in Can’t Hurry Christmas from USA Today Bestselling Author Melissa Baldwin.
“Callie, I know this isn’t a typical holiday season for you. I can’t imagine how you are feeling now that…things are different without …”
“You can say his name, Hannah.”
“Joey,” she says softly. “I’m sorry. I know this is a difficult time.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be sorry. I asked him to set a wedding date, and he said he wasn’t ready and didn’t know when he would be. That pretty much told me everything I needed to know. Our goals were not exactly as aligned as I thought they were.”
She places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I’m really proud of you.”
“Proud? For getting dumped?”
“No. For not settling,” she explains. “And for letting me drag you into crazy holiday chaos instead of spending the night alone, binge-watching TV shows you’ve seen a hundred times.”
I laugh under my breath. “You’re not wrong. This is good for me—I always do better when I’m busy.”
“You might even enjoy yourself at the festive family night,” she says, tying another bow in less than two seconds.
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be a blast,” I say flatly. “Hundreds of children, awkward small talk, and tacky decor. I’m all in.”
She giggles. “By the way, Anna’s new friend is coming with us. Her name’s Mia. She’s such a sweetheart.”
“Cool,” I say, biting my lip as I attempt another bow.
“And her dad’s meeting us there.”
I glance up. “Okay?”
“He’s a very nice guy…”
I narrow my eyes at her. “That’s great. Is there a reason you’re telling me this?”
She conveniently avoids making eye contact with me.
“Hannah…”
“Yes?”
“What are you up to?”
“I’m not up to anything,” she says, innocently. “I just thought it might be nice for you to meet a new friend.”
I stare at her. I should’ve known she was up to something. She was very insistent that I go to the festive family night.
She shrugs. “Anyway, he’s single. And nice. He has a good job. And he’s very—”
“Stop right there,” I interrupt. “No setups. You promised.”
“I didn’t set you up,” she says. “I merely mentioned that a single, employed man who also happens to be a devoted father will be in the same vicinity as you.”
“Oh, well in that case,” I say, rolling my eyes again.
She smirks and reaches over to take the mangled ribbon from my hands. “Here, let me help. You’re not exactly grasping the bow tying process here.”
“I didn’t get Mom’s crafty gene like you,” I mutter.
She laughs. “No. But you certainly inherited the moody gene from her.”
“I’m not the only one,” I tell her.
She holds up a perfectly wrapped box, complete with an elaborate gold bow. “See? We make a good team.”
“Always,” I say. “You do the work, and I’m here for moral support.”
Author Bio:
USA Today bestselling author Melissa Baldwin always dreamed of sharing her stories with the world. She brought this vision to life, becoming an award-winning, bestselling author of over thirty romantic comedies and cozy mysteries. Melissa is also a wife, mother, new empty-nester, and travel advisor.
Her books feature charming, ambitious, and real women, whom she considers part of her tribe. Although she rarely takes a day off, when she’s not writing, she enjoys quality time with her family, traveling, attempting yoga poses, and booking Disney vacations. Melissa still uses a paper planner, and her guilty pleasures include Beverly Hills 90210 reruns and General Hospital.
Visit authormelissabaldwin .com to sign up for her newsletter.
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Have You Seen Him Kimberly Lee Publication date: July 1st 2025 Genres: Adult, Mystery, Suspense, Thriller
What if everything you believed about yourself was totally wrong?
For David Byrdsong, life is a series of daily obligations. An attorney, he lacks both ambition and the ability to commit to a long-term relationship with his girlfriend, Gayle. Abandoned by his family at an airport when he was eleven, he learned to blunt his feelings, despite his subsequent adoption by a loving couple.
Until one day, when David discovers his own face in a missing child ad. Suddenly driven to uncover the truth about his past, he is forced to tap into his inner strength as he encounters corporate conspiracies, murdered bystanders, and distressing suspicions about the only family he’s ever really trusted. David enlists Gayle’s help—and the help of an unlikely stranger with secrets of his own—as he attempts to find his true family, whoever they are.
Thrilling, exploratory, and propulsive, Have You Seen Him is a story of lost identity, dangerous secrets, and a deeply personal pursuit of the truth.
David looked around his apartment for a chore, a task, something to keep himself from thinking about facing his coworkers the next day. It was a tall order; he was a minimalist, freakishly neat. Everything was “in its place.” Sifting through junk mail was the thing he resented the most, so David forced himself to do it as penance for his milquetoast behavior in court.
Even though he knew recycling was the right thing to do—for the melting polar ice caps, the coral reef, all that—he hated the monotony of sorting through everything. He suppressed the urge to chuck it all into the same bin. Trash, like pretty much everything else these days, was unnecessarily complicated. Who knew for sure if the carefully categorized items ever even made it to the place where things could be salvaged and revived and turned into handbags made of candy wrappers, seatbelts, and pull-tabs. A documentary he’d watched had uncovered the fact that in at least one town, and probably many others, every single throwaway went to the landfill, whether the bin was blue, black, or green.
But he felt guilty when he didn’t do it, and he had enough things to feel guilty about. The incident at work, his useless behavior. Not picking Gayle up from the airport. He’d wanted to see her, especially after the upsetting day. On the brief phone call before her flight took off, he’d promised to meet her at LAX. But he knew he’d conjure up a reason not to be there. Airports were overripe with too much—too many people, too much movement, too many unknowns.
He rifled through the papers and envelopes. Deals on mattresses, Lay-Z-Boy recliners, chimney cleaning, and towards the bottom of one of the leaflets, the words “¿Me Has Visto?” He had taken Spanish from the voluptuous Mrs. Boyette in 10th grade, so the translation was easy. “Have You Seen Me?”
The pictures accompanying the plea were obscured by something from the Red Cross. He crushed all of the pages into a pointy, misshapen ball, then felt shame for not even glancing at the photo of the poor lost child. He opened the bundle back up and laid the paper on the table, smoothing the crinkled paper with his hands.
David focused in on the ad and saw his own face gazing back at him. He shook his head as if to shake the foolishness out.
“What the—?” His eyes locked on the image. “This. Can’t be real.” He leaned
further in and squinted. The technology had somehow managed to match his exact shade of brown. Although the nose in the picture was a bit too narrow, it was close enough. David had a full, close-cropped beard; the man in the picture barely had a mustache. Regardless, it was him, in a “computer-generated image of subject at thirty-six years old,” as stated by the printed words below the man’s, well, his, picture.
What the hell?
The photo on the left was a picture he’d never actually seen, but it was how he remembered himself at eleven years old, refusing to smile for the goofy school photographer. “Wuss happnen,” the photographer had said as David approached the stool, centered in front of a faded blue background. David frowned. The only people who spoke like that were characters on the old reruns his parents watched. But the photographer had kind eyes. After the photo, David smiled and held out his hand as he exited the bandroom-turned-photo studio. “Gimme five,” he offered, the way he’d seen it done on TV. It made the man’s day; he’d slapped David’s hand with enthusiasm. David was glad he had done it, this grand gesture. The photographer was married to Mrs. Dalton, the hard-faced 3rd grade teacher. He deserved a break.
But David was at a new school, living with his new family, by the time the batch of photos were developed and sent home in cellophane envelopes with his classmates. He’d never seen the pictures.
Until now.
Author Bio:
Kimberly Lee, JD, is a writer, workshop facilitator, and editor with a passion for nurturing the imaginative spirit and helping others reveal their creative gifts. She holds degrees from Stanford University and UC Davis School of Law. Kimberly lives in Southern California with her husband and three children.
Rollo Duchamps-Avery, the high-spirited second son of the eleventh Earl of Rossingley, is not in his father’s best books. After one misdemeanour too many, the earl ruins Rollo’s idyllic summer by packing him off to the wilds of rural Norfolk, arranging for him to stay with the Duke of Ashington’s loathsome brother.
Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons has an aversion to houseguests. Shunned by polite society for crimes far wickeder than anything Rollo could dream up, all Fitzsimmons wants is to drink himself into a stupor, tend his beloved hydrangeas, and take potshots at tin soldiers.
If only his inquisitive young visitor, with his pretty little head of wispy blond hair, his stupidly coltish legs, and his knack of always being where Fitzsimmons would rather him not, would leave him in peace.
This third book in the Rossingley Regency romance series features the fourteenth Earl of Rossingley’s lively second son, Rollo, and the Duke of Ashington’s disgraced brother, Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons. This book can be read as a standalone.
“Crocodile tears won’t save you this time, Master Rollo.”
Pritchard’s lisping note of triumph was unmistakeable. “No matter how prettily you shed them, you’ve pushed your papa too far. He is provoked beyond measure.”
“He’d be his usual fine and dandy self if you hadn’t gone running to inform him.”
“My primary role in the Rossingley household is to serve the earl,” answered Pritchard, as prissy and prim as ever. “Not his licentious offspring.”
Rollo harboured an ugly notion that his father’s valet had been waiting a long time for this moment, possibly since when Rollo, at age four, had sprinkled rich, resinous lily pollen amongst Papa’s meticulously folded white linens. It had been the opening salvo of a rather jolly dislike of each other.
“You’re relishing this, aren’t you, Pritchard?”
“Tremendously,” Pritchard confirmed.
Escape flitted across Rollo’s mind, but only for a second. One step ahead, and perhaps recalling the time Rollo had feinted past him and sprinted away across the lawns, Pritchard had brought along reinforcements in the form of two burly footmen stationed on either side of the library door. The window, alas, was closed.
Rollo shot a pleading look towards Kit Angel—Papa’s divine and terribly understanding paramour—currently decorating the settee, who shook his head. Everybody was loyal to Papa to a fault, and it was damned annoying.
“Sorry, old chap.” At least Kit sounded genuine. “For what it’s worth, I tried to talk your father out of it. Some of us enjoy having you around.”
What did he mean by having you around? Rollo wasn’t planning on going anywhere, unless swallow diving headfirst out of the nearest window and running for the hills until Papa had calmed down counted. And talk him out of what?
Before Rollo could further parse Kit’s words, Papa himself swept into the library, dressed in his favourite chartreuse silk banyan and pearls. Rollo coveted both immensely. As always, the eleventh earl was impeccably turned out, though this morning, his flamboyant attire sat at odds with the discomfiting, frigid set of his mouth. Rollo barely dared meet his pale eyes; when his mouth looked as grim as that, his gaze could freeze a lake.
“Rollo, my darling.”
Rollo winced. Only a fool would mistake the endearment for anything other than an affectation.
“Yes, Papa.”
The ice-chip eyes glittered. “You know why you’re here, I assume?”
“Yes, Papa.”
Experience taught Rollo that short answers tended to be met more favourably. Unfortunately, his smart mouth had a lamentable tendency to act independently of his mind. “Writing out I must not swive the stable boy one hundred times was a significant clue. The lack of hot water in my room this morning more subtle. But no less vexing.”
The faintest ghost of a smile twitched his father’s lips, gone in an instant. Even in the midst of a scolding, Rollo still appreciated he had the best of fathers. Most would have introduced his arse to the switch long ago.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Rollo?”
Rollo straightened his shoulders. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb and all that. The importance of standing up for himself had been instilled in him from a young age; Papa could hardly complain now he was reaping what he’d sown.
“Yes, Papa. Several things, actually.”
Papa sighed. “I’d expect nothing less.”
“Firstly, my wrist aches.” Rollo waggled it to demonstrate. “I have indelible green ink stains on my second-favourite blush waistcoat, and I’m still frightfully chilly. And, for the record, Ellis was an able, willing, practiced, and—dare I say—extremely encouraging participant.”
“Naturally, he was; you paid him two pounds!”
“And it was very well deserved.”
“And then a further crown, on account, for future favours!”
Goodness, Pritchard had been busy. Rollo shot him an evil look, though in having his financial transactions laid out so bluntly, his bravura hung by a thread.
“At risk of repeating myself,” Rollo ploughed on, “I considered it money well spent. Ellis has several strings to his bow.”
“Evidently.”
His father’s fine blond brows knit together. The line between standing up for himself and cheeking Papa was a fine one; Rollo had a sneaking suspicion he might have tiptoed across it.
“Darling Rollo,” began his father, a layer of frost coating each syllable. “For all I care, our stable boy could have the whole string section of London’s prestigious Philharmonic Society tucked behind the fall of his breeches. And you could have twanged every single instrument.”
Rollo had been on his knees attempting exactly that until he’d been discovered by the second groom, who’d blabbed to the head groom, who’d gone tittle-tattling to Pritchard.
“Nevertheless, as you are well aware, there is nothing I detest more than fortunate, well-heeled members of society taking advantage of those in their employ.” With an irritable flick of his hand, Papa waved away Rollo’s attempt to defend his actions. “That Ellis was willing is an irrelevance. You placed the man in a devilishly awkward position, and I simply will not tolerate it. Have I made myself crystal clear?”
“Yes, Papa,” he replied meekly. “Sorry, Papa.”
“And so you should be.”
Yet to be mollified, his father folded his arms and began pacing in front of the fireplace. “The simple truth remains. Our loyal servants are out of bounds. I distinctly recall this being made perfectly clear to you when you returned from Eton last year. Did I not?”
Rollo hung his head. “Yes, Papa.”
“If it had been your first demeanour and you had been totally in the dark, then, of course, I would instruct you on how a Duchamps-Avery should behave. It would be remiss of me not to. But, as it is, the fact that you stand here, arguing the point after all I’ve…”
Ahhh, to begin the day with one of Papa’s sweet lectures. Rollo didn’t need to tune in for the rest. He knew how things ran. Their disputes were well rehearsed operatic duets, composed of increasing exasperation on Papa’s part, Rollo feigning abject apology, a discourse on how a Duchamps-Avery should conduct themselves, ending with a loving embrace and a promise to do better. As usual, Pritchard and Kit had been making a fuss over nothing. Rollo would bow his head a few times, continue to appear suitably repentant, and ride this one out.
Content in the sure knowledge he was loved, Rollo’s thoughts drifted. In a few moments, Papa would fizzle out and decree his penance. Idly, Rollo wondered what it might be. Papa was nothing if not creative. Over the years, Rollo’s punishments had ranged from counting all the earwigs in the orangery (aged five, he was discovered hiding in the coal cellar after two hours of searching) to scrubbing the scullery steps with a toothbrush (for convincing his twin brother, Willoughby, that eating crushed pinecones would allow him to see better in the dark). Willoughby casting up his accounts the next morning during the church sermon aside, some of Rollo’s so-called punishments had turned into rather good fun. Like the time he was consigned to digging over the vegetable patch and unearthed an adder, which had slithered over Pritchard’s foot.
“To that end, Rollo, it is high time you had a firmer hand. My own father, rest his soul, oft quoted that a rose bush must be heavily pruned in order to produce the best blooms. And, on this occasion, I believe he was speaking with the weight of wisdom. Don’t you agree?”
Papa’s lecture appeared to have taken a horticultural detour. “Er…yes?”
“Excellent.” His father clapped his hands. “Therefore, Dobson will accompany you when you depart for your trip to Norfolk this afternoon, see you safely settled in, and return to collect you in three months’ time.”
“D-Dobson will…what?” Rollo’s happy flights of reminiscence screeched to a halt. Did…did he…did…? “Sorry, Papa, I must have misheard. Did you just say Dobson’s accompanying me to Norfolk?”
“Got it in one, darling. You are clever. To Goule Hall, to be precise. On the edge of the Broads, between some hellish backwater named Stokesby and another provincial bog going by the name of Wroxham, I believe. A delightful, if not a tad isolated, property belonging to the Ashington estate. The duke’s twin brother, Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons, remains in residence after spending an enforced period of seclusion there a couple of years ago, whilst he…ah…reflected on several episodes of…ah…poor behaviour in and around the ton. I shall spare you the details. Suffice to say that in comparison, dear boy, your antics are those of a rank amateur.”
This Lord Lyndon Fitz-something-or-other could have kidnapped the moon from under the noses of the sun and the stars for all that Rollo cared. “And this…this Goule Hall is in Norfolk?” he clarified, aghast. Perhaps, somehow, his father was confusing Norfolk with Mayfair.
Alas, no.
“Unless the hall has been excavated and deposited elsewhere since the duke and I corresponded less than a week ago, then yes.”
“And Willoughby is coming too,” Rollo decreed, praying if he said it with enough confidence, that would somehow make it true.
His father shook his head. “On the contrary. Willoughby will be travelling to London with me. I plan to use the time you are apart to begin schooling your brother in the rudiments of my business affairs.” He flashed Rollo an evil little smile very much like Rollo’s own, displaying all of his sharp pointed teeth. “And perhaps take the opportunity to do some shopping, pay a visit to my tailor, and so forth.”
Ugh. That was a low blow. Rollo didn’t give two hoots for learning about business. Willoughby would inherit the title and all that nonsense, anyhow. But how he adored their family shopping expeditions! Much more than Willoughby ever did.
Pritchard made an odd noise, quickly covering his mouth with his hand. Knowing the blasted valet, the whole thing had been his bloody idea. He’d always enjoyed having the earl to himself. Rollo would have said so, too, if every ounce of his not inconsiderable intelligence wasn’t fixated on desperately seeking a way out of the barren wasteland now known as his immediate future. Because, from where he was sitting, Norfolk already seemed horribly like a fait accompli. Three months. Three summer months. Stuck with a dull, ancient lord, in a draughty old hall in the middle of effing nowhere. They might as well just shoot him with a musket ball now and be done with it.
He tried one last time. “Ha ha, very funny. But…really, Papa? Norfolk? Cold, flat, windy Norfolk? Even Bonaparte wasn’t exiled to Norfolk!”
“No.” The earl tilted his white-blond head, so like Rollo’s own, in gentle acknowledgement. “But then, my dear, Napoleon Bonaparte wasn’t a spoiled second son of an earl, caught swiving one of my stable boys when he’d been given explicit instructions not to manhandle the servants. Pritchard? Ring for Dobson, if you would be so kind. I do believe Rollo’s valises are already packed.”
Fearne Hill is a British writer of queer romance and the winner of the 2025 Lambda Literary Award for LGBTQ Romance. When she’s not crafting characters who fall hard and kiss slowly, she works as an anaesthesiologist. She lives in the deepest Dorset countryside with her beloved spaniels.
Genre: Sweet Contemporary Small-Town Western Romance
🎄A heartfelt cowboy Christmas romance about second chances, small-town healing, and the power of love.🎄
He left her behind once. This Christmas, will love bring him home for good?
After six long years, two military deployments, and a
grueling recovery from an IED blast, Zachary Caldwell is finally home in
Morning Glory, Wyoming, and the Flying D Ranch. He never thought he’d see the
snow-covered streets of his hometown again… or the woman whose heart he broke
with nothing more than a phone call.
Julia Grant has spent years rebuilding her life. She finds
comfort in her job as a nurse at Mercy Clinic, the cozy routines of the Morning
Glory Inn, and the stability of her small town. But when Zach walks through her
door just weeks before Christmas, old memories and deeper feelings come rushing
back.
She once dreamed of a future with him. Marriage. Family. A love that stays.
But dreams don’t always survive war, distance, and silence.
As Zach confronts the truth about his past, including the
reason his parents abandoned him, Julia must decide if she’s willing to risk
her heart a second time. Can she believe in him again when he’s still learning
how to believe in himself?
Set against a backdrop of twinkling lights, blizzards, and
heartwarming holiday traditions, The Cowboy’s Christmas Blessing is a clean,
wholesome contemporary western romance about healing, forgiveness, and finding
your way back to the one who never left your heart.
“Well, don’t let Mia work you too hard. You have your nursing duties awaiting you.”
“I appreciate your concern.” Julia processed their credit card, her fingers moving across the keyboard. She handed over their room keys, brass numbers gleaming in the lobby light. “You’re in the Aspen Suite, as always. I’ve arranged for fresh flowers. The white lilies you prefer.
”Gerald collected their keys with a smile. “Consistency becomes more precious as one ages. Knowing some things remain unchanged provides comfort.
”His words struck Julia with unexpected force. She’d built her life around consistency during the last three years. The same apartment, same rotation at the clinic, same corner booth at Wind River Grill with Heidi on Thursdays. The foundation she’d constructed now trembled beneath her feet with his return.
The Cowboy’s
Christmas Gift
Morning Glory Christmas Book 2
🎄A heartfelt later in life cowboy Christmas romance about second chances,
small-town healing, and the power of love.🎄
Clean and wholesome contemporary western
romance.
The Snowstorm Was Just the Beginning
Victoria Palmer hadn’t expected
to spend Christmas in a town so small it barely made her GPS. But after a
painful divorce and the betrayal of a husband now living with someone half her
age, her twin sons insisted she escape the glitz of Beverly Hills for the snowy
calm of Morning Glory, Wyoming. One snowstorm, two missed turns, and a very
arrogant cowboy later, Victoria settles herself at the Morning Glory Inn—cold,
flustered, and anything but merry.
Gabe Dupree never expected a
spoiled city woman to march into his family’s inn, insult his hospitality, and
throw his quiet December into disarray. A widower devoted to his daughter and
his ranch, Gabe made peace with solitude years ago. But Victoria’s arrival
brings disruption—and a spark he never thought he’d feel again.
As snow blankets the Wyoming landscape and the town gears up for its Christmas
festivities, Victoria and Gabe are forced into each other’s paths more often
than either prefers. Between tense encounters and accidental heart-to-hearts,
they begin to uncover the hurt and longing hidden beneath their defenses.
Sometimes love doesn’t come wrapped in
ribbons. Sometimes, it rides in on a snowstorm.
Neither are in Morning Glory looking for love, but sometimes the best gifts
come when you least expect them—wrapped not in ribbons, but in second chances.
The Cowboy’s Christmas Gift is
Book 2 in the Morning Glory
Christmas series—a sweet, later in life, contemporary western romance
full of holiday charm, second chances, and heartfelt family moments. Perfect
for readers who love small-town Christmas romance, slow-burn love stories, and
strong, swoon-worthy cowboys. Guaranteed HEA.
A photograph had fallen from Victoria’s wallet. It was a picture of her sons, taken during their last family vacation before the divorce. It lay face up between them, the young men’s smiling faces captured in the afternoon light on a Maui beach. Gabe paused, studying the image with unexpected gentleness.
Victoria reached for it at the same moment Gabe extended his hand. Their fingers brushed over the photograph, the contact sending an electric current up Victoria’s arm. She inhaled sharply, surprised by the intensity of the sensation.
Gabe’s eyes lifted to hers, widening slightly as if he’d felt it, too. For a suspended moment, they remained frozen, fingertips connected over the image of her sons, awareness crackling between them like winter electricity.
The Cowboy’s
Christmas Surprise
Morning Glory Christmas Book 3
Clean and wholesome
contemporary western romance.
🎄A heartfelt cowboy Christmas romance about small-town healing and the power of love.🎄
Snowstorms, Secrets… and an Unexpected
Family Christmas
Ethan Webster thought he had everything figured out—thriving career in Denver,
a sleek loft, and weekends on the ski slopes. But one phone call from Italy
changes everything. His sister and brother-in-law are gone, and their three
young children need him now more than ever. Leaving the city behind, Ethan
returns to Morning Glory, Wyoming—a snowy, small-town haven tucked into the
foothills of the Rocky Mountains.
Back in the hometown he never thought he’d live in again, Ethan leans on the
one person he’s always trusted. Makayla Dupree. A dedicated veterinarian and
lifelong friend, Makayla once taught him to ride horses and stood up for him
when no one else would. This Christmas, she’s standing by him once again… this
time to support him through his grief.
As the town sparkles with Christmas lights and the scent of pine fills the air,
Ethan finds comfort in Makayla’s quiet strength, and sees her in a way he never
did before. Their bond has always been strong, but grief, responsibility, and
the magic of the season spark something deeper. Something that looks a lot like
love.
But navigating newfound feelings and unexpected responsibilities isn’t easy.
With the children still mourning, and Ethan unsure about his future, will the
season of miracles bring them together—or pull them apart?
The Cowboy’s Christmas Surprise is
a clean and wholesome Christmas romance filled with heartfelt family moments,
small-town charm, slow-burning love, and the promise of a surprise love.
Perfect for fans of cowboy heroes, emotional reunions, and uplifting holiday
reads. It is book three in the Morning Glory Christmas series and features a
guaranteed happy ending.
Shirleen Davies believes love stories are best served with a dash of grit, a few stumbles, and a whole lot of heart.
She writes contemporary and historical romance about everyday folks who don’t
always get it right the first time, but keep trying anyway. Raised near the
sunny coast of Southern California, Shirleen spent her childhood bouncing
between the beach and her grandparents’ farm, where she learned that nothing
beats the smell of fresh hay or the quiet wisdom of a rocking chair on a porch.
Armed with degrees from San Diego State University and the University of Maryland
(plus an unofficial PhD in people-watching and life experience), she crafts
emotionally rich stories filled with flawed, stubborn, hopeful characters who
discover love where they least expect it.
When she’s not writing about cowboys, deputies, or the women strong enough to tame
them, Shirleen enjoys life in a picturesque northern Arizona town with her
husband. She’s the proud mom of two grown sons, still believes in happy
endings, and is convinced that redemption is just one good story away.
Can two Rangers find love when they’re haunted by invisible
monsters — inside and out?
Earth civilians are obsessed with selfies and social media, but my life
revolves around alien starships, superhuman strength, and A.I. implants. Too
bad none of it helped when I was captured and tortured. Now I crave revenge,
but as a genetically engineered Ranger, I must obey Mothership’s rules:
protect humanity. Never kill.
When another alien ship sends monsters to invade Earth, Mothership’s
Rangers must stop them. My new Ranger teammate is everything I shouldn’t
crave: handsome, skilled, and haunted by his own dark past. He helped rescue
me from torture, but it cost him his entire team. Now I’m the mess
he’s got to clean up.
Battling invisible monsters may be the death of us, but our mutual attraction
is undeniable. Can we stop an alien invasion despite our dangerous chemistry?
EXCERPT
Present Day
Diana
I stared at the screen, watching the Earth grow larger as our transport raced
toward it. Even after two months as one of Mothership’s Rangers, the
sight reminded me how strange my new life had become. Down there, people were
obsessed with selfies, celebrities, and social media. I’d plunged into a
world of giant alien starships, AI brain implants, and super-strength.
And worse.
An image flashed through my head — the sadistic grin on Roger Bannon’s
face as he leaned in, the surgical drill whining as it spun. I’d fought
not to scream as the drill bit in.
Roger loved it when I screamed.
I shoved away the memory, hard. If I wasn’t careful, that thin face with
those pale, rabid eyes would start running through my head on an OCD loop.
“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” I muttered.
Next to me, Ian Cartwright turned to give me a narrow stare. “What did
you say?”
Damnit, Diana, you’re not supposed to creep out your battle buddy.
“Bad memories.”
His expression softened, ice-blue eyes going a little less chilly. “I
can imagine.”
No, you really can’t. I didn’t say it aloud. Cartwright already
thought I was a human hand grenade just waiting for somebody to pull my pin.
The team didn’t need that kind of distrust, especially in the middle of
an op.
I looked away to see Indra Fox watching me in concern. Crap, I’d even
freaked her out. She and our team leader, Rowan Kerr, sat on one of the other
bench seats beside the huge oval screens that lined the transport’s
curving fuselage.
Indy had been my best friend all my life, my sister in every way but blood.
She could read me as if she were telepathic. “Having a flashback?”
She tilted her head, long, dark hair swinging around her face, green eyes
startling against the silken fall of black. Like me, Indy had a tough,
athletic build from the combat and strength training we’d had from the
time we could walk. Our dads hadn’t been fooling around.
“I’ve got it handled.”
“Cyberpunk could block those if you’d let him.”
She was right — my AI brain implant could suppress the firing synapses that
triggered those memories. “I’m not going to give Roger the
satisfaction.”
Rowan Kerr snorted. “Satisfaction’s the last thing Bannon’s
feeling.” Our team leader was even bigger than Cartwright, though his
features were less classically handsome, with the rich golden coloring of his
Latino heritage. His angular features and intense gaze made him look like
he’d escaped a temple in ancient Greece. “If he even thinks about
what he did to you, he’ll get a one-way trip to PTSD hell. Pissing Mothership off is never a good idea.”
“She still turned him loose. He could try it again.” That’s
why I dreamed of killing him, First Reg or no First Reg. If Bannon was dead,
he’d never come back.
Cartwright gave me a frustrated glower. “Newman, he can’t. His
conditioning won’t let him. If you violate the First Reg again,
you’re going to find out why — the hard way. You’ve used up the
only second chance you get.”
That just pissed me off. “If Mothership had rescued Indra and me when
Satan’s Horsemen murdered our –”
“How about not starting a fight in the middle of a mission?” Rowan
interrupted. “We’ve got a child and his family to rescue.
Preferably before the damn Boars grab them.”
I shut my mouth so fast, my teeth clicked. I’d seen the file photo in
Aiden Scott’s dossier. Just eight years old, the kid had huge brown eyes
in a pale, round little face under a flyaway mop of dark hair, his grin wide
and white and missing a couple of baby teeth.
When Aiden was diagnosed with a high-risk medulloblastoma at age four, doctors
treated the brain tumor with surgery, chemo, and radiation. He’d still
relapsed three years later. The boy would probably be dead now, except Mothership spotted his family’s medical GoFundMe. She’d sent a
Ranger team to the Scott family with an offer to heal Aiden. His parents
hadn’t looked a gift miracle in the mouth — just packed him up and
flown off with the Rangers.
Giant alien spaceships are a lot less scary than losing a child.
Mothership’s doctors had infused Aiden’s body with nanotech —
molecule-sized bots that hunted down every cancer cell in his body and killed
them all. Then the tech corrected the genetic condition that caused the cancer
while healing the damage it had inflicted. He’d been healthy and happy
within three months.
But that nanotech also made him a tempting target for the Boarosans
who’d invaded the solar system a decade back. The humans whose bodies
the Boars used as unwilling hosts were as vulnerable to disease as everyone
else, and the aliens wanted to keep their meat suits healthy. That was why
they’d ordered the Horsemen to kidnap me, why Bannon and his
“researchers” had cut me, scarred me, peeled me so they could
watch my tech put me back together. They’d hoped to reverse engineer my
nanotech.
They could easily do the same to Aiden. Mothership’s simulations
predicted that since I’d escaped, the Boar might well decide to go after
the Cured she’d treated.
The idea of that sweet little boy at the mercy of the same aliens who’d
given me to Roger…
Rescuing Aiden’s a hell of a lot more important than beefing with my own
team. Better mend some fences.
I gave Ian a tight nod. “Sorry for going off on you, Cartwright.
Rowan’s right — an op isn’t the time to get pissy.”
He studied me thoughtfully. Rangers were universally attractive — Mothership’s genetic engineering at work — but Ian was even more
gorgeous than the typical agent. His face was intensely masculine, all high
cheekbones and square jaw, his nose aquiline, his mouth wide, with a lower lip
I longed to nibble. He wore his sable hair in a severe style that made him
look even harder, sexier, but it was his eyes that pulled me in. An icy blue,
they were ringed and rayed in a rich cobalt, watchful and cool. People tend to
dismiss a man that pretty, but Cartwright was also six-five and built like an
NFL defensive lineman. As one of Mothership’s Rangers, he was even more
dangerous than he looked.
“I started it.” His voice rumbled in a way that made me yearn to
exchange more than snark with him. “Shouldn’t have poked the
wound. I’m sorry.”
“Let’s just… start over, okay? The point is getting Aiden
and his family to safety.”
His nod was tight and controlled, like everything else about the man.
“Works for me.”
About the Author
New York Times best-selling author Angela Knight has written and published
more than sixty novels, novellas, and ebooks, including the Mageverse and
Merlin’s Legacy series. With a career spanning more than two decades,
Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine has awarded her their Career Achievement
award in Paranormal Romance, as well as two Reviewers’ Choice awards for
Best Erotic Romance and Best Werewolf Romance.
Angela is currently a writer, editor, and cover artist for Changeling Press
LLC. She also teaches online writing courses. Besides her fiction work,
Angela’s writing career includes a decade as an award-winning South
Carolina newspaper reporter. She lives in South Carolina with her husband,
Michael, a thirty-year police veteran and detective with a local police
department.
Whether you’re in the mood for fantasy adventures, rockstar romances, rugged bikers, or something a little more daring—like steamy BDSM sci-fi love stories—Books + Coffee = Happiness has you covered! ☕📚
We spotlight the books you didn’t know you needed and the authors you’ll soon be obsessed with. Dive into this week’s features and discover your next binge-worthy read!
Set sail for suspense in the thrilling first installment of the Sailing
Mystery Series!
In Murder on the Squid Row Run, oboist Georgiana Quilter is finally hitting
her stride—with a dream orchestra job and a new apartment. But when she
agrees to pose as a celebrity’s girlfriend during a glamorous
international sailing rally, things take a dark and deadly turn.
A body turns up on board. A child disappears. A saboteur strikes. As the Squid
Row Run heads from San Diego to Cabo San Lucas, Georgiana races to uncover
secrets buried at sea—all while navigating a fake romance that’s
becoming dangerously real.
Perfect for fans of cozy mysteries, strong female sleuths, and nautical
adventures, authentic maritime details inspired by the author’s own
seven-year circumnavigation. Suspense, wit, and danger at every port
“… action-packed with a pitch-perfect ear for all the craziness
of an international sailing rally.”
—Cap’n Fatty
Goodlander, Cruising World Magazine
Love mystery series set on the water? This is your next great read.
Author Julia Shovein brings authenticity and edge to her mystery novels, drawn
from a life spent at sea and in service. After a thirty-year career as a
university professor of nursing (Professor Emeritus), Julia retired and
embarked on a global sailing adventure with her husband, circumnavigating the
globe over seven years.
She lived and wrote in exotic locations like New Zealand, Turkey, and
London’s St. Katherine Dock. Upon returning home to Paradise,
California, Julia and her husband narrowly escaped the devastating Campfire
wildfire. These life-altering experiences shaped her writing—and her
heroine, Georgiana Quilter.
Now living in Bremerton, Washington, with her husband Horst and husky Blue,
Julia is a proud member of the Poulsbo Yacht Club. She’s truly, as
Cruising World puts it, “the real thing.”
That Boy Briar Black (The Cheshire Set, #3) Publication date: November 6th 2025 Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Holiday, Romance, Suspense
Building an impossible tea farm in the Cheshire countryside was Sofia’s second chance. A way to prove herself. A fresh start. She knew it would be graft. She anticipated a degree of isolation. But with Christmas imminent and the farm failing, her thoughts have grown darker. She’s searching for something — an ineffable force to make this year the magical wonderland she always craves and never finds.
Yet with the farm failing there’s no time to fix her ailing social life. Sofia resigns herself to another lonely holiday.
Enter Matt.
Delaware Grange’s twenty-one-year-old assistant gamekeeper. Nice enough, a bit dopey.
As she hunkers down for winter, Sofia thinks she’s prepared for everything. Nothing could prepare her for Matt. For the abrupt awareness of him. For the way he’s far more capable than he seems. Thoughtful. Considerate. Quietly intelligent.
Way sexier than he appears.
Suddenly impossible to ignore.
But Matt isn’t what he seems. A darkness runs beneath Delaware Grange — insidious, creeping, buried deep.
Sofia was little more than a challenge, a box for Matt to check, an assignment to complete. Until he fell.
Hard.
Now all he sees is her. All he wants is her. And all he knows is she has no idea who he truly is. While Sofia fights her feelings in the face of forbidden fruit, and Matt wrestles with the reality of his true purpose on the estate, the pair fall into an intoxicating, passionate, volatile romance.
As winter deepens and Christmas closes in, two lonely souls struggle to find peace in each other, and trust becomes the most dangerous choice on the estate.
Falling for Matt threatens everything Sofia has worked so hard to build. Falling for Sofia might just be the making of Matt.
That Boy is a high-heat, secret-identity romance where desire, deception, and devotion collide in a snowy small-town Christmas.
While not required, it is highly suggested to read Nightshade before That Boy.
Author’s Note: Each novel in The Cheshire Set can be read as a standalone, but the following order avoids spoiling the reading experience of earlier books.
Recommended Reading Order for The Cheshire Set:
Bane
Nightshade
That Boy
Eve Was Framed, a prequel novella to Bane, isn’t strictly part of The Cheshire Set but is available for free download on the author’s website.
A quiet, introspective moment between Matt and Sofia after a near-disaster. As they talk about “The Gloaming”—that melancholy space between Halloween and Christmas—their chemistry deepens and the novel’s central themes of loneliness, yearning, and rediscovery of light emerge.
“What’s the Gloaming?”
“Oh. Right.” I shifted, trying to find a way to lean that didn’t hurt my shoulder. It was useless. Until someone could pop it back in, I was doomed to dull agony. “It’s that feeling that threatens to drown you…” I paused, swallowing hard and staring out the window.
The world nearly drowned me tonight.
“This time every year.” I finally managed. “You know?”
Keep talking. Stay conscious. Don’t toss your cookies into his lap.
“That…overwhelming urge to…cover everything in cheer. But…” I took a little more water. “…the more you try, the less cheerful you feel. So you just keep…adding more.”
He chuckled.
“Hoping the cheer finds you before you’re…” Another tiny sip of water. “…crushed by baubles and fake fir garlands.”
He stared at me.
Great. Now he thinks I’m a total weirdo.
“I get it.” A slow smile spread across his face. “You’re staring at all the decorations. Watching the snow fall. And somewhere inside you’re sure you love Christmas. But you never quite seem to feel it.”
“Yes!” I sat up, and momentarily thought I’d blackout from the effort.
He eased me back into the sofa.
“Nailed it.” I swallowed. Talking was so much effort. Thinking was weirdly worse. “It’s a coping mechanism, I guess.”
He nodded, but when I didn’t continue, he made a winding motion with his hands.
“Every year this…fog descends. When Halloween’s over. This looming sense of…dread.”
“And it’s right when everyone else is getting excited.”
I nodded. “Exactly. Not me.” The wind howled savagely by, rattling the window and making us both jump. I turned my face away from the glass, not wanting to think about the carnage outside. “I’m sat there like a…miserly Scrooge.”
“Scrooge was never that pretty.”
I shook my head. “Don’t flirt with me.”
“Keep talking then.”
I didn’t want to. I just wanted to sleep.
My eyes drifted, and he nudged my knee with his. “Sof?”
With gargantuan effort, I rallied. “Welcome to Gloamas!” I wheezed. “Not quite Christmas. Not quite apathy. Some…twisted netherworld.”
He permitted me another tiny sip of water for my effort.
I swallowed it and continued, “You’re stuck for weeks. Longing to be…joyful and merry. But…that ineffable light is…absent.”
Matt pursed his lips. “So…it’s not gloomy, it’s gloamy. You’re in the twilight. Daylight’s gone. You know it will be back at some point, but in the interim, you’re left with a hollow echo—”
“How you…loved Christmas…as a kid,” I managed. “Desperately wish to…feel it all.”
He grinned. “But for now, the light’s faded. Until the sun rises, you’re left wisting after a feeling.”
I stared at him. “And someone to share it with.”
Matty shifted a little closer. He was still soaking wet from the rain. Must have been freezing. Yet he hadn’t complained. Hadn’t even seemed to notice. I leant into him and shivered. More at the thought of how cold he must be than anything else. But he stripped off my blankets (now soaked) and wrapped me in two new dry ones.
The phone rang, and he shot up to grab it.
“She’s okay, I think. Conscious, talking, the bleeding’s stopped. Her shoulder’s bad, but—”
A pause as whoever was on the other end of the line spoke.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” He peered out of the window. “The rain’s still coming down hard.”
Another pause.
“Okay. We’ll be here.”
He hung up. “Sounds like the storm’s passing. It’s lightening up at the house, and the rain’s almost stopped down there. They’re on their way up. By the time they get here, it should have cleared.”
“The track will be murder.” I tried to sit up.
He moved and blocked me, forcing me to stay still. “Easy.”
“Give me the phone.”
“They’ve already left, Sof.”
I struggled some more.
“Stop!”
Calm. But firm. Commanding.
I’ve never heard him speak like that before.
“Stop.”
Softer. Eyes searching mine.
My heart fluttered.
“We’d all gladly risk a bit of fucking mud to get you safe. You must know that?”
My breath caught. My chest constricted painfully. His jaw was locked. The look in his eyes was…feral.
And so fucking hot.
There’s really something wrong with me.
Satisfied I wasn’t about to bolt for the door, he sat back down. Glanced around.
“Is that why all your decorations are so…weirdly depressing?”
“They’re not.” I sniffed.
“They really are, Sof. Like…they’re full of the festive spirit but don’t quite hit the mark.”
He glanced at my forlorn little tree. Which, in fairness, was at least standing vertically now. I’d come in one day to find him scrambling around on the floor, fiddling with the screws on the base to get it standing straight.
He was right. The baubles were desolate.
I loved them.
“I like them.” Matt wrapped the blankets tighter around me. “They’re comfortingly depressing. How Christmas should be. It always just…kind of reminds you of all you’re missing in life.”
Author Bio:
Briar has been a professional copywriter for many years (far more than she cares to admit). She began her career working for large companies and agencies before realising she could do it all for herself. Now, she happily writes for businesses and entrepreneurs she’s passionate about and dreams of the day her fiction becomes popular enough for her to retreat into fictional worlds full-time. Growing up in Cheshire and falling in love with its countryside, small towns, and villages, she’s enjoyed creating a fictional world that reflects her own.
The Mist and the Flame Coral-Li St. Helen (The New Bardiverse, #1) Publication date: September 15th 2025 Genres: Fantasy, Historical, Young Adult
What’s really behind the story of star-crossed lovers Romeo and Juliet?
Let’s start with the truth about Rosaline—Romeo’s actual first love. Rosaline scorns romance and instead craves magic. To free herself from Romeo’s amorous attention as well as her dull life in Verona, she uses her limited sorcery skills to bring him and Juliet together. Renaming herself Foschia Luminosa, she then gleefully runs off to join a school of magic.
Just when Lumi’s dreams are about to come true, disaster Syra, the intimidating witch who runs the school, denies her entry and demands she return to Verona. She must repair the damage done by her spell or the young couple is doomed and Lumi will be outcast forever.
As tragedy looms ever nearer, Lumi reluctantly teams up with a mysterious, sullen girl calling herself Fiamma Fredda, an orphan of unknown parentage. Freddi is an astonishingly skilled fighter, but who is she, and does she really want to help—or is she using Lumi for her own purposes?
Join Lumi and Freddi in their thrilling quest to save Romeo and Juliet, learn of Freddi’s origins, and grapple with Syra’s own dark past. They—and you—are in for a great many surprises along the way…
On the particular day that started it all, our tutor, Grigio, gave me something to translate which turned out to be an old recipe for a potion to be used for suppressing painful memories. It called for various common herbs which I knew Friar Lawrence grew in his garden, so I ran to him the first chance I got to ask for the ingredients. That, I found out later, was how the school at La Fortezza became interested in me. Friar Lawrence and, incredibly, my tutor both looked out for potential candidates to recruit for this secret school. Most of the tutor’s pupils, my cousin Juliet included, merely did the translation (perfectly, in her case). The very few with the curiosity to see if it would work, those were the ones that interested them.
But I knew none of that at the time; I was only interested in making the potion work. Initially, it didn’t, and I figured out there had been an ingredient omitted—possibly deliberately, so Grigio’s students wouldn’t have the complete formula. That was laughable—and insulting. I immediately began experimenting on my own, trying to figure out the missing item. (This extra step, apparently, made La Fortezza very interested in me.) My creations, placed discretely in various rooms, made me sneeze (not magical), made the cook giggle (possibly magical, since she generally had a dour disposition), and made my parents look at each other in a way I hadn’t seen in years (which was uncomfortable to witness but also possibly magical). I noted these combinations of ingredients down and, not satisfied, kept trying.
When I couldn’t quite come up with the perfect formula on my own, I sought the friar again. If Grigio was a young man who seemed like an old one, Friar Lawrence was, if not old, then middle-aged at least, but cheerful, jovial, and youthful in every aspect of his demeanor. To put it another way, he was possibly the only priest that people my age actually liked, someone who talked to you like a person and not just a sinner. In his little garden behind the church he welcomed me with delight, a dirt-crusted trowel in one hand and some mysterious wrinkled root in the other, immediately asking how my potion had gone.
“Not well, thank you. It didn’t work, but I think I know how I can fix it—with your help, if you would.”
“I would be most delighted to help,” he said, eager curiosity shining in his eyes. He put down the trowel and root, dusted his cassock off (though his hands were dirty too and he really only ended up shifting the soiling of the garment to different sections), and gestured me toward a bench where we both sat. “Now, how did you know it didn’t work?”
“I tried. A lot. The closest I got was when I tried it on Bruno, but even then it still wasn’t right.”
“Bruno?”
“The old dog I found wandering around outside our gate. I named him Bruno. Poor thing. He had been treated very badly, we think by a man or several of them—he is afraid of men. I wanted to see if I could help him forget his suffering. He seemed to be calmer when I sprinkled one particular herbal powder mix around him, but he still growls and shrinks away when a man goes by, so he hasn’t completely forgotten.”
The friar smiled. “That was kind of you to try, though a human subject might have been more able to communicate what they were experiencing.”
I shrugged. I wanted to try it on the dog because I wanted to alleviate his suffering. His big brown eyes were deep with sorrow. How could I do otherwise? I went on impatiently, “I know why it didn’t work—there’s an ingredient missing, isn’t there?”
Friar Lawrence tilted his head. “Yes and no. Well, yes and yes, I suppose. The recipe as you received it is in fact missing an ingredient, but that ingredient alone—stridolo petals, I believe—will not make this work. The real missing ingredient is you. Bruno calmed down because you were calm. Bruno cannot forget whatever suffering he went through, no matter what herbs you use, because you can’t forget it—because you never remembered it in the first place.”
“Of course not. I wasn’t there.” Now I frowned. Did I, too, have to be beaten and starved by cruel men for both of us to forget? Wasn’t there an easier way to help my poor sad-eyed friend? There was a limit to what even I wished to experience. “How can I make these things work without, well, going through terrible things?”
“It is a long and difficult journey to take, Rosaline. But I can try to show you the first steps.” He shifted a little on the bench so that he was facing me. “Think of a happy memory from your childhood, but don’t tell me about it.”
His simple request startled me. Was he going to read my mind?
Author Bio:
Coral-Li St. Helen is the pen name of a writer who lived all over the United States before settling down roughly in the middle. She loves reading and writing, hiking and napping, coffee, noodles, her spouse and her dog.
