Camilla Isley's Blog - Posts Tagged "book-excerpt"
An Excerpt from My End-Of-May New Release
From Sweet Love and Country Roads:I navigate through the airport security checks like a malfunctioning human droid, and just before boarding, I indulge in the last decent cup of double-shot vanilla latte.
As I sit on the plane, I pull my sleeping mask over my eyes, ready to snatch a couple of hours’ extra sleep during the journey.
Once we land, I rinse and repeat, pulling my sleeping mask on the moment my assistant and I step into the black truck a member of the film crew drove to Louisville to pick us up.
I’m jostled awake a while later when the pickup comes to an abrupt stop. The arrest is so sudden, only a fastened seatbelt prevents me from bumping my head into the front seat.
I yank off the sleeping mask. “What’s going on?”
Jerry Mallon, the driver and our on-set carpenter and handyman, turns back toward me. “A cow is blocking the street.”
“A cow?”
I exit the truck to check the situation. We’re on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields. No, not even fields—more like pastures. An endless expanse of grass on both sides. And in front of us, blocking the way, a gigantic brown cow with white patches is grazing the grass growing at the side of the road.
I get closer, and Jerry and Celia join me. “Can’t we just side-step it? The ground seems pretty flat at the road’s edges and we have a pickup.”
Jerry inches his chin in that direction. “There are ditches on both sides, hardly noticeable in the tall grass, but I’m not sure how deep they go and I wouldn’t want to risk getting tipped over or stuck.”
I shield my eyes with my hand against the midday sun and squint at the winding road ahead. Nothing beyond the cow.
“Can we take a different route?”
Jerry removes his baseball cap and scratches the back of his head. “The thing is, the GPS gets iffy in these parts, and I’m not exactly sure where your farm is.”
“My farm? What do you mean, my farm?”
“Sagebrush Ranch, isn’t that where we’re going?”
“No. We’re going to a hotel in town.” I turn to my assistant. “Aren’t we?”
Celia wrings her fingers and looks at me apologetically. “That was the plan, but the two inns in town had most weekends booked and couldn’t accommodate us for such a long stay. I had to find a more creative solution. A ‘bed and breakfast’ sort of thing.” Celia puts her hands forward. “Which is much better because we’ll have access to a fully equipped kitchen. We couldn’t have survived three months on take-out.”
I’m about to reply that I’ve survived most of my life on take-outs, but then I remember this is Indiana and not New York. I’m not sure how many healthy delivery options they have in Emerald Creek.
Oh my gosh, what am I going to eat? Then, once again, I remember we have to accommodate a full cast of Hollywood-spoiled actors and their dietary quirks. Hence, we have an on-site chef and a community barn for meals and meetings at the ranch we’re renting as the primary set.
“Don’t be silly,” I tell Celia, irritated. “We’re going to eat with the rest of the crew.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, I’ve never been on location. Anyway, the bed and breakfast was the only spot with rooms for the entire summer.”
I wonder why. Oh my gosh, she probably booked us into a hovel.
“And what about the on-site cabins?” I snap.
“All occupied.”
My head is already hurting. And not just for the lack of sleep or the excessive alcohol intake of last night.
It must be all the fresh air.
I need to sleep and, hovel or not, I don’t care as long as they have a bed for me.
But before we can get there, we need to overcome our little cattle problem.
I stare at the other two and they stare back at me, expectantly. “So our only hope is to make that cow move?”
They nod sheepishly.
“Let’s make it move, then. How hard can it be?”
Again, they both just stare at me.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.”
I approach the cow and size up the animal. My opponent continues grazing, unperturbed. I give her a gentle pat on the hindquarters. Nothing happens. I slap her harder, saying, “Move.”
The wretched animal lifts her head, still munching, and observes me, unimpressed. Once she’s finished chewing, she moos at me.
“What does that mean? I don’t speak cow. Can you please move out of the way?”
I try to push her forward, at which point she raises her tail and… I jump backward just before a pile of brown mush hits the ground, specks of the semi-solid substance landing dangerously close to my precious calf-hair stilettos. Then the smell hits my nostrils, making me want to gag.
Before I even have time to put a hand over my mouth, an uproarious laugh to my left makes me turn.
A man is sitting on horseback near the road. I take in his cowboy boots and hat, the faded jeans smudged with dirt and dust, and the checkered shirt.
Dude, you couldn’t be more of a stereotype if you tried.
Under the shadow of that giant, ridiculous hat, and with the sun coming in from behind him, I can’t properly see his face, but the smile is arrogant enough to irk me even more.
“Is this yours?” I ask, pointing at the cow.
The man tips his hat at me. “Sure is, miss.”
“Would you mind moving her so we can be on our way?”
The cowboy whistles in response. “Come on, Betsy, yeeha, yeehaw, yeeee-haw, time to go.”
The cow flattens one ear but otherwise ignores her owner.
I cross my arms at this poor display of cowboy showmanship.
In response, the man bends sideways over his saddle and grabs a rope that he swings over his head once, twice, and then throws it around the cow’s neck.
Show-off.
Cow secured, he whistles sharply at her to move. Nudged by the rope around her neck, Betsy has no choice but to follow. She abandons her grass, hops across the ditch in a surprisingly graceful jump for such a large animal, and goes to stand next to the horse.
“Road’s all clear,” the cowboy says. “Where are you folks headed, anyway?”
“Sagebrush Ranch,” Jerry replies. “Is it far?”
“Not at all.” The cowboy points at a bend in the road. “Once you pass that turn, it’s another two miles before the gate comes into view.”
“Thanks,” Jerry says.
“No problem.” The cowboy tips his hat again. “Have a nice day.”
He frees Betsy from the lasso, then turns his horse around and, emitting clicking sounds, he digs his heels into the stirrups and leaves at a trot.
I watch him go, then stare back at the pile of dung in the middle of the road that pretty much summarizes my impression of Indiana so far.
Get lassoed into your next great romance at:
Amazon
Apple Books
Barnes & Noble
Kobo
Google Play
Readers are saying this is my best book!
Sweet Love and Country Roads is live on all retailers! This book has got it all, including:
♥ A sexy, infuriatingly irresistible hero who looks as good in a suit as he does in cowboy boots
♥ A feisty city girl who's about to have her entire world tipped upside down
♥ The backdrop of an adorable, quaint small town
♥ The cutest pets ever—I'm not kidding!
♥ Sweet'N Hot Kisses
♥And an enemies to lovers chemistry like no other
Out now in eBook, Audio, and Print!
Join the country fair at:
Amazon
Apple Books
Barnes & Noble
Kobo
Google Play
As a writer, I'm always surrounded by a halo of self-doubt whenever I release a new story into the wild. Will this book be as good as my last—or any good at all?
Well, with Sweet Love and Country Roads those fears were promptly disbanded. I was stunned and ecstatic to read from early reviews many readers think this is my best work to date. Thank you! Here are a few snippets:
Sweet Love and Country Roads is my favorite Camilla Isley novel so far, hands down! A five-star experience! Sarah Steven – Chick Lit Central
This new book was just perfection in every possible way! I honestly think this is Camilla Isley’s best work (till now) and there was never a doubt in my mind that this story was worthy of my rare and precious five star – rating. Tiziana - Tizi’s Book Reviews
With Samantha’s endless supply of inappropriate (for the rural town) clothing and shoes, there were so many moments that had me laughing. Proud Book Reviews
What I love most about this book: The cute animals and the insane chemistry between Sam and Travis, a man who in equal parts infuriates her, yet sets her soul on fire.
Goodbye New York, hello cowboy?
An enemies to lovers, small town rom-com...
If Samantha’s Baker’s life were as simple as one of the movies she produces, when she – a latte-loving city girl - gets banished to the country and fights with the local hunk cowboy soon afterwards they’d fall in love.
But everyone knows the movies aren’t real life! (And just FYI, Mr Cowboy, it’s not gonna happen!)
Travis Hunt knows what it’s like to miss the city. He’s given up everything to take over the family ranch and become mayor of Emerald Creek. He has responsibilities. But how does he convince a gorgeous, hot-shot executive like Samantha to swap her stilettos for cowboy boots and her Friday night cocktails for country dance competitions? Small town life just can’t compete with all the hustle and bustle of New York City.
But what if it’s not where you are that you call home… What if it’s who you find while you’re there?
Please note that this title was originally published as Sweet Love and Country Roads.
An opposites attract, fish-out-of-water rom-com perfect for fans of Sarah Adams and Abby Jimenez!
Available at all retailers and also in Kindle Unlimited:
Amazon, also available to borrow in Kindle Unlimited
Apple Books
Kobo
Barnes & Noble
Google Play
All other retailers and libraries and audiobook links
If your local library supports Overdrive e-books, you can search the title on the Libby app and recommend it to them.
Or add it to your TBR shelf:
If you enjoy small-town rom-coms with dashing cowboys, this is the perfect story for you. The last book in the First Comes Love series, Love To Hate You (previously published as Sweet Love and Country Roads), has got it all, including:
A sexy, infuriatingly irresistible hero who looks as good in a suit as he does in cowboy boots
A feisty city girl who's about to have her entire world tipped upside down
The backdrop of an adorable, quaint small town
The cutest pets ever—I'm not kidding!
Sweet'N Hot Kisses
And an enemies to lovers chemistry like no other
Join the ride at your favorite retailer or in Kindle Unlimited
If you're not convinced yet, scroll down for the sneak peek (it includes a country style meet-cute):
Love To Hate You Excerpt
I navigate through the airport security checks like a malfunctioning human droid, and just before boarding, I indulge in the last decent cup of double-shot vanilla latte.
As I sit on the plane, I pull my sleeping mask over my eyes, ready to snatch a couple of hours’ extra sleep during the journey.
Once we land, I rinse and repeat, pulling my sleeping mask on the moment my assistant and I step into the black truck a member of the film crew drove to Louisville to pick us up.
I’m jostled awake a while later when the pickup comes to an abrupt stop. The arrest is so sudden, only a fastened seatbelt prevents me from bumping my head into the front seat.
I yank off the sleeping mask. “What’s going on?”
Jerry Mallon, the driver and our on-set carpenter and handyman, turns back toward me. “A cow is blocking the street.”
“A cow?”
I exit the truck to check the situation. We’re on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields. No, not even fields—more like pastures. An endless expanse of grass on both sides. And in front of us, blocking the way, a gigantic brown cow with white patches is grazing the grass growing at the side of the road.
I get closer, and Jerry and Celia join me. “Can’t we just side-step it? The ground seems pretty flat at the road’s edges and we have a pickup.”
Jerry inches his chin in that direction. “There are ditches on both sides, hardly noticeable in the tall grass, but I’m not sure how deep they go and I wouldn’t want to risk getting tipped over or stuck.”
I shield my eyes with my hand against the midday sun and squint at the winding road ahead. Nothing beyond the cow.
“Can we take a different route?”
Jerry removes his baseball cap and scratches the back of his head. “The thing is, the GPS gets iffy in these parts, and I’m not exactly sure where your farm is.”
“My farm? What do you mean, my farm?”
“Sagebrush Ranch, isn’t that where we’re going?”
“No. We’re going to a hotel in town.” I turn to my assistant. “Aren’t we?”
Celia wrings her fingers and looks at me apologetically. “That was the plan, but the two inns in town had most weekends booked and couldn’t accommodate us for such a long stay. I had to find a more creative solution. A ‘bed and breakfast’ sort of thing.” Celia puts her hands forward. “Which is much better because we’ll have access to a fully equipped kitchen. We couldn’t have survived three months on take-out.”
I’m about to reply that I’ve survived most of my life on take-outs, but then I remember this is Indiana and not New York. I’m not sure how many healthy delivery options they have in Emerald Creek.
Oh my gosh, what am I going to eat? Then, once again, I remember we have to accommodate a full cast of Hollywood-spoiled actors and their dietary quirks. Hence, we have an on-site chef and a community barn for meals and meetings at the ranch we’re renting as the primary set.
“Don’t be silly,” I tell Celia, irritated. “We’re going to eat with the rest of the crew.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, I’ve never been on location. Anyway, the bed and breakfast was the only spot with rooms for the entire summer.”
I wonder why. Oh my gosh, she probably booked us into a hovel.
“And what about the on-site cabins?” I snap.
“All occupied.”
My head is already hurting. And not just for the lack of sleep or the excessive alcohol intake of last night.
It must be all the fresh air.
I need to sleep and, hovel or not, I don’t care as long as they have a bed for me.
But before we can get there, we need to overcome our little cattle problem.
I stare at the other two and they stare back at me, expectantly. “So our only hope is to make that cow move?”
They nod sheepishly.
“Let’s make it move, then. How hard can it be?”
Again, they both just stare at me.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.”
I approach the cow and size up the animal. My opponent continues grazing, unperturbed. I give her a gentle pat on the hindquarters. Nothing happens. I slap her harder, saying, “Move.”
The wretched animal lifts her head, still munching, and observes me, unimpressed. Once she’s finished chewing, she moos at me.
“What does that mean? I don’t speak cow. Can you please move out of the way?”
I try to push her forward, at which point she raises her tail and… I jump backward just before a pile of brown mush hits the ground, specks of the semi-solid substance landing dangerously close to my precious calf-hair stilettos. Then the smell hits my nostrils, making me want to gag.
Before I even have time to put a hand over my mouth, an uproarious laugh to my left makes me turn.
A man is sitting on horseback near the road. I take in his cowboy boots and hat, the faded jeans smudged with dirt and dust, and the checkered shirt.
Dude, you couldn’t be more of a stereotype if you tried.
Under the shadow of that giant, ridiculous hat, and with the sun coming in from behind him, I can’t properly see his face, but the smile is arrogant enough to irk me even more.
“Is this yours?” I ask, pointing at the cow.
The man tips his hat at me. “Sure is, miss.”
“Would you mind moving her so we can be on our way?”
The cowboy whistles in response. “Come on, Betsy, yeeha, yeehaw, yeeee-haw, time to go.”
The cow flattens one ear but otherwise ignores her owner.
I cross my arms at this poor display of cowboy showmanship.
In response, the man bends sideways over his saddle and grabs a rope that he swings over his head once, twice, and then throws it around the cow’s neck.
Show-off.
Cow secured, he whistles sharply at her to move. Nudged by the rope around her neck, Betsy has no choice but to follow. She abandons her grass, hops across the ditch in a surprisingly graceful jump for such a large animal, and goes to stand next to the horse.
“Road’s all clear,” the cowboy says. “Where are you folks headed, anyway?”
“Sagebrush Ranch,” Jerry replies. “Is it far?”
“Not at all.” The cowboy points at a bend in the road. “Once you pass that turn, it’s another two miles before the gate comes into view.”
“Thanks,” Jerry says.
“No problem.” The cowboy tips his hat again. “Have a nice day.”
He frees Betsy from the lasso, then turns his horse around and, emitting clicking sounds, he digs his heels into the stirrups and leaves at a trot.
I watch him go, then stare back at the pile of dung in the middle of the road that pretty much summarizes my impression of Indiana so far.
Fall for the wrong cowboy at your favorite retailer or in Kindle Unlimited
If Samantha’s Baker’s life were as simple as one of the movies she produces, when she – a latte-loving city girl - gets banished to the country and fights with the local hunk cowboy soon afterwards they’d fall in love.
But everyone knows the movies aren’t real life! (And just FYI, Mr Cowboy, it’s not gonna happen!)
Travis Hunt knows what it’s like to miss the city. He’s given up everything to take over the family ranch and become mayor of Emerald Creek. He has responsibilities. But how does he convince a gorgeous, hot-shot executive like Samantha to swap her stilettos for cowboy boots and her Friday night cocktails for country dance competitions? Small town life just can’t compete with all the hustle and bustle of New York City.
But what if it’s not where you are that you call home… What if it’s who you find while you’re there?
Please note that this title was originally published as Sweet Love and Country Roads.
An opposites attract, fish-out-of-water rom-com perfect for fans of Sarah Adams and Abby Jimenez!
Available at all retailers and also in Kindle Unlimited:
Amazon, also available to borrow in Kindle Unlimited
Apple Books
Kobo
Barnes & Noble
Google Play
All other retailers and libraries and audiobook links
If your local library supports Overdrive e-books, you can search the title on the Libby app and recommend it to them.
Or add it to your TBR shelf:
If you enjoy small-town rom-coms with dashing cowboys, this is the perfect story for you. The last book in the First Comes Love series, Love To Hate You (previously published as Sweet Love and Country Roads), has got it all, including:A sexy, infuriatingly irresistible hero who looks as good in a suit as he does in cowboy boots
A feisty city girl who's about to have her entire world tipped upside down
The backdrop of an adorable, quaint small town
The cutest pets ever—I'm not kidding!
Sweet'N Hot Kisses
And an enemies to lovers chemistry like no other
Join the ride at your favorite retailer or in Kindle Unlimited
If you're not convinced yet, scroll down for the sneak peek (it includes a country style meet-cute):
Love To Hate You Excerpt
I navigate through the airport security checks like a malfunctioning human droid, and just before boarding, I indulge in the last decent cup of double-shot vanilla latte.
As I sit on the plane, I pull my sleeping mask over my eyes, ready to snatch a couple of hours’ extra sleep during the journey.
Once we land, I rinse and repeat, pulling my sleeping mask on the moment my assistant and I step into the black truck a member of the film crew drove to Louisville to pick us up.
I’m jostled awake a while later when the pickup comes to an abrupt stop. The arrest is so sudden, only a fastened seatbelt prevents me from bumping my head into the front seat.
I yank off the sleeping mask. “What’s going on?”
Jerry Mallon, the driver and our on-set carpenter and handyman, turns back toward me. “A cow is blocking the street.”
“A cow?”
I exit the truck to check the situation. We’re on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields. No, not even fields—more like pastures. An endless expanse of grass on both sides. And in front of us, blocking the way, a gigantic brown cow with white patches is grazing the grass growing at the side of the road.
I get closer, and Jerry and Celia join me. “Can’t we just side-step it? The ground seems pretty flat at the road’s edges and we have a pickup.”
Jerry inches his chin in that direction. “There are ditches on both sides, hardly noticeable in the tall grass, but I’m not sure how deep they go and I wouldn’t want to risk getting tipped over or stuck.”
I shield my eyes with my hand against the midday sun and squint at the winding road ahead. Nothing beyond the cow.
“Can we take a different route?”
Jerry removes his baseball cap and scratches the back of his head. “The thing is, the GPS gets iffy in these parts, and I’m not exactly sure where your farm is.”
“My farm? What do you mean, my farm?”
“Sagebrush Ranch, isn’t that where we’re going?”
“No. We’re going to a hotel in town.” I turn to my assistant. “Aren’t we?”
Celia wrings her fingers and looks at me apologetically. “That was the plan, but the two inns in town had most weekends booked and couldn’t accommodate us for such a long stay. I had to find a more creative solution. A ‘bed and breakfast’ sort of thing.” Celia puts her hands forward. “Which is much better because we’ll have access to a fully equipped kitchen. We couldn’t have survived three months on take-out.”
I’m about to reply that I’ve survived most of my life on take-outs, but then I remember this is Indiana and not New York. I’m not sure how many healthy delivery options they have in Emerald Creek.
Oh my gosh, what am I going to eat? Then, once again, I remember we have to accommodate a full cast of Hollywood-spoiled actors and their dietary quirks. Hence, we have an on-site chef and a community barn for meals and meetings at the ranch we’re renting as the primary set.
“Don’t be silly,” I tell Celia, irritated. “We’re going to eat with the rest of the crew.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, I’ve never been on location. Anyway, the bed and breakfast was the only spot with rooms for the entire summer.”
I wonder why. Oh my gosh, she probably booked us into a hovel.
“And what about the on-site cabins?” I snap.
“All occupied.”
My head is already hurting. And not just for the lack of sleep or the excessive alcohol intake of last night.
It must be all the fresh air.
I need to sleep and, hovel or not, I don’t care as long as they have a bed for me.
But before we can get there, we need to overcome our little cattle problem.
I stare at the other two and they stare back at me, expectantly. “So our only hope is to make that cow move?”
They nod sheepishly.
“Let’s make it move, then. How hard can it be?”
Again, they both just stare at me.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.”
I approach the cow and size up the animal. My opponent continues grazing, unperturbed. I give her a gentle pat on the hindquarters. Nothing happens. I slap her harder, saying, “Move.”
The wretched animal lifts her head, still munching, and observes me, unimpressed. Once she’s finished chewing, she moos at me.
“What does that mean? I don’t speak cow. Can you please move out of the way?”
I try to push her forward, at which point she raises her tail and… I jump backward just before a pile of brown mush hits the ground, specks of the semi-solid substance landing dangerously close to my precious calf-hair stilettos. Then the smell hits my nostrils, making me want to gag.
Before I even have time to put a hand over my mouth, an uproarious laugh to my left makes me turn.
A man is sitting on horseback near the road. I take in his cowboy boots and hat, the faded jeans smudged with dirt and dust, and the checkered shirt.
Dude, you couldn’t be more of a stereotype if you tried.
Under the shadow of that giant, ridiculous hat, and with the sun coming in from behind him, I can’t properly see his face, but the smile is arrogant enough to irk me even more.
“Is this yours?” I ask, pointing at the cow.
The man tips his hat at me. “Sure is, miss.”
“Would you mind moving her so we can be on our way?”
The cowboy whistles in response. “Come on, Betsy, yeeha, yeehaw, yeeee-haw, time to go.”
The cow flattens one ear but otherwise ignores her owner.
I cross my arms at this poor display of cowboy showmanship.
In response, the man bends sideways over his saddle and grabs a rope that he swings over his head once, twice, and then throws it around the cow’s neck.
Show-off.
Cow secured, he whistles sharply at her to move. Nudged by the rope around her neck, Betsy has no choice but to follow. She abandons her grass, hops across the ditch in a surprisingly graceful jump for such a large animal, and goes to stand next to the horse.
“Road’s all clear,” the cowboy says. “Where are you folks headed, anyway?”
“Sagebrush Ranch,” Jerry replies. “Is it far?”
“Not at all.” The cowboy points at a bend in the road. “Once you pass that turn, it’s another two miles before the gate comes into view.”
“Thanks,” Jerry says.
“No problem.” The cowboy tips his hat again. “Have a nice day.”
He frees Betsy from the lasso, then turns his horse around and, emitting clicking sounds, he digs his heels into the stirrups and leaves at a trot.
I watch him go, then stare back at the pile of dung in the middle of the road that pretty much summarizes my impression of Indiana so far.
Fall for the wrong cowboy at your favorite retailer or in Kindle Unlimited
Read chapter one of my new book
Dear Book Lovers,
I’m thrilled to share a preview of my brand-new Christmas rom-com, This Is Not a Holiday Romance.
I don’t know about you, but I’m so ready for the hot weather to be over and for sweaters season to arrive. If you'd like to enjoy a little second-hand chill (albeit with sizzle) from the pages of a book, please enjoy chapter one of this snowed-in rom-com, happy reading!
Chapter One
Nina
I’m about to drop a bag of popcorn in the microwave ready for a rom-com marathon with my roommates when my phone pings with a message from my brother.
Dylanosaur:
My dearest sister
Oof. With that opening, he’s sure about to ask for something I’d rather clean my entire house with a toothbrush than agree to. Nuh-uh. I’m already wearing my pajamas ready for 90s Hugh Grant and bed, nothing more.
Nina:
Whatever you’re about to ask, the answer’s no
Dylanosaur:
Please. I’m stuck with one hand down the garbage disposal and I need you to come rescue me
I try to picture all the scenarios of how Dylan might’ve gotten into that predicament, but give up just as quickly. I don’t want to know.
Nina:
Can’t your *angelic* roommate save you?
And by angelic, I mean spawn of Satan devil incarnate.
Dylanosaur:
Tristan is away on a business trip
Pretty please?
I stare longingly at the freeze-screen of the classic holiday movie I was about to watch with my roommates and sigh.
Nina:
On my way
Dylanosaur:
I knew you were my favorite sister
Nina:
I’m your only sister
P.S. Lucky you had your phone on you before you got stuck
Dylanosaur:
Actually, I’m dictating. My phone is in the living room
Nina:
Is your phone’s virtual assistant reading my answers aloud to you?
Dylanosaur:
Yes
Nina:
Alexa, please play Justin Bieber’s latest album at top volume
I smirk, imagining my brother shouting a counter order to be heard over the music. With a sigh, I drop the still-closed bag of popcorn back into the box and prepare to tell my roommates movie night is over for me.
“How long is that popcorn taking?” Hunter asks, as if on cue.
I exit the kitchen and find her kneeling on the couch, her hands on the backrest, straining her neck to check what I’m doing. Her wavy dark hair frames her face as she balances at a weird angle.
“Roomies,” I announce, stepping fully into the living room. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to call a raincheck on rom-com night.”
“No, why?” Rowena asks. The light catches on her glasses as she looks up from her phone, her chestnut braid swaying with the movement.
“I have to go save my idiot brother from himself.”
Hunter’s eyes get a little brighter at the mention of Dylan. “What happened?” she probes, her curiosity thinly masked.
“He’s trapped himself in the garbage disposal,” I explain, putting away my phone and pulling on a puffer jacket.
“Can’t the Prince of Darkness save him?”
I chuckle at Rowena’s use of our favorite nickname for my brother’s evil roommate. “On a business trip, the useless prick.” I ready myself to brave the cold, pulling on my Uggs over my pajamas. “If I hurry, I can be back in time to watch the movie.”
“You’re going in your PJs?” Rowena questions, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
“Yep, it’s only a couple of blocks. I’m not getting dressed again.”
“We should go with you,” Hunter suggests eagerly.
I frown. “Why would you want to go out in the freezing cold?”
“Your brother and the Prince of Darkness have a huge TV,” Hunter explains, blushing slightly.
“And they have premium cable,” Rowena interjects. “We could watch something new, instead of rewatching Love Actually for the millionth time. It’s only a couple of blocks, as you said.”
“Plus, you shouldn’t walk around the city alone at night,” Hunter insists.
“It’s decided,” Rowena declares “We’re moving the pajama party to your brother’s place.”
Dylan will be grumpy about the home invasion, but he’s the one who needs rescuing. I shrug. “Let’s go.”
* * *
I use my spare set of keys—the fact that I have them irks the Prince of Darkness to no end and is also why I’ll never give them back—to let myself into my brother’s building.
I know I’m in trouble when we step out of the elevator and hear the distant notes of a Justin Bieber song. The volume intensifies as we reach the corner unit—because my brother, the investment banker, and the Prince of Darkness, CEO of an evil tech corporation (I don’t really understand what his fintech company does but it must be something wicked if he runs it) live in the most expensive apartment on the top floor. Which, with New York’s real estate prices, would still have been impossible even with their fancy jobs. But Tristan’s father, probably Satan himself, gifted the place to his little mini demon as a graduation present. Dylan pays him a lowball rent, and they split expenses.
As I unlock the door and step into the apartment, the decibel level of the song becomes unbearable. I dash into the wide-open space, all modern furniture and wall-wide windows, trying to locate a shutoff button. From his half-reclining position over the sink, my brother stares murder at me but still points with his free hand to the smart speaker assistant on the shiny crystal coffee table.
When I pulled the prank on Dylan, I hadn’t expected him not to be able to shut off the album. But I didn’t consider that the sound system in Satan’s lair is concert-level loud. Dylan’s bad for his poor taste in roommates.
To make the music stop, I have to physically grab the speaker, bring the AI out in the hall, and impart the instructions where she can hear me. When I come back, Dylan is being interrogated by Rowena on the dynamics of his accident while Hunter just stares at him, lost in some sort of trance.
“I dropped my ring,” Dylan explains.
I roll my eyes as I remove my outer layers and pull my natural dark blonde hair up in a topknot. I hate that stupid ring. When my brother and the Prince of Darkness won the basketball national championship in their senior year at Duke, it was all anyone could talk about—for months. Over and over, I had to listen to how many blocks Dylan pulled off, how many shots from three Tristan sunk, and what a glorious game it was. One that I was forced to witness in person, to show my sisterly supportiveness. I wouldn’t have minded if it were only Dylan playing. But having to stomach number 666 swagger through the entire two halves, making acrobatic dunks, and sending more than one cheerleader to the emergency room with fainting spells was just too much—666 definitely wasn’t Tristan’s number, but that’s how I like to remember it.
I roll up the sleeves of my pajama top and step into the kitchen, beaming at my brother. “So, what do you want me to do?”
Dylan glares at me. “You left me in Bieber hell for half an hour. I’m going to strangle you the second I get free.”
Keeping a safe distance, I hop onto the black marble counter—black souls must come with black fixtures. “I’m glad you brought that up in advance, dearest brother, so we can negotiate the terms of your release.”
“Nina, I swear—”
“Hush, hush… here are my terms.” I count off my fingers. “I get an immediate pardon for the Bieber incident—I’m sorry, by the way, I didn’t know your speakers could produce a sonic boom.”
Dylan stares daggers at me but nods.
“I’m going to need verbal confirmation.”
“Apology accepted,” he grits out. Not like he has a choice. “And what else?”
“Me and the girls get to watch a movie of our choosing on your superior appliances and cable service.”
“Yeah, why did you bring the entire cheer squad?” He pushes his fringe of blond hair—unfairly lighter than mine—out of his face.
“We’re here for protection,” Hunter squeals a bit too loud. “Couldn’t let your sister walk alone in the middle of the night.”
“It’s not the eighties,” Dylan protests.
“They’re here for the premium streaming, mostly. Do you accept our terms?”
My brother’s eyes gleam with playful spite. “Next time one of your toilets clogs and you don’t know what to do, I’m going to have so much fun telling you to call a plumber.”
I cock my head. “Do you wish me to add unlimited plumbing support as a provision?”
“No. I take the deal.”
“Perfect.” I hop off the counter. “You gals pick a movie while I solve this.”
“Do you have popcorn?” Hunter asks my brother.
“Second cabinet to the left.”
She finds the snacks and pops them into the microwave—also black. “Thanks.”
“How do I free you?” I ask Dylan.
“There’s a toolbox under the sink in the laundry room. You’re going to need to unscrew the disposal from underneath.”
That’s how, ten minutes later, I end up with a deluge of triturated, decomposing, wet refuse on my chest. “Ew.” I emerge from under the sink. “You owe me big time for this brother, big time.”
“The Bieber thing makes us even,” Dylan says, massaging his wrist.
“I’m going to need a shower.”
“Be quick,” Hunter calls from where they’re nestled on the gigantic sectional couch. “We want to watch the movie.”
“Trust me, no one wants to be rid of this garbage faster than me.”
I step out of the kitchen, wiping my dirty hands on my already ruined flannel PJ top, and freeze when I hear a key turn in the front door’s lock.
I’m still frozen in place when the Prince of Darkness enters the apartment and finds me standing in his living room with sewage running down my chest and smelling like the aftermath of a skunk convention.
Two sworn enemies, snowed in over Christmas with chemistry that will melt the ice!
Out September 4 at all book shops!
Amazon & Kindle Unlimited
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I’m thrilled to share a preview of my brand-new Christmas rom-com, This Is Not a Holiday Romance.
I don’t know about you, but I’m so ready for the hot weather to be over and for sweaters season to arrive. If you'd like to enjoy a little second-hand chill (albeit with sizzle) from the pages of a book, please enjoy chapter one of this snowed-in rom-com, happy reading!
Chapter One
Nina
I’m about to drop a bag of popcorn in the microwave ready for a rom-com marathon with my roommates when my phone pings with a message from my brother.
Dylanosaur:
My dearest sister
Oof. With that opening, he’s sure about to ask for something I’d rather clean my entire house with a toothbrush than agree to. Nuh-uh. I’m already wearing my pajamas ready for 90s Hugh Grant and bed, nothing more.
Nina:
Whatever you’re about to ask, the answer’s no
Dylanosaur:
Please. I’m stuck with one hand down the garbage disposal and I need you to come rescue me
I try to picture all the scenarios of how Dylan might’ve gotten into that predicament, but give up just as quickly. I don’t want to know.
Nina:
Can’t your *angelic* roommate save you?
And by angelic, I mean spawn of Satan devil incarnate.
Dylanosaur:
Tristan is away on a business trip
Pretty please?
I stare longingly at the freeze-screen of the classic holiday movie I was about to watch with my roommates and sigh.
Nina:
On my way
Dylanosaur:
I knew you were my favorite sister
Nina:
I’m your only sister
P.S. Lucky you had your phone on you before you got stuck
Dylanosaur:
Actually, I’m dictating. My phone is in the living room
Nina:
Is your phone’s virtual assistant reading my answers aloud to you?
Dylanosaur:
Yes
Nina:
Alexa, please play Justin Bieber’s latest album at top volume
I smirk, imagining my brother shouting a counter order to be heard over the music. With a sigh, I drop the still-closed bag of popcorn back into the box and prepare to tell my roommates movie night is over for me.
“How long is that popcorn taking?” Hunter asks, as if on cue.
I exit the kitchen and find her kneeling on the couch, her hands on the backrest, straining her neck to check what I’m doing. Her wavy dark hair frames her face as she balances at a weird angle.
“Roomies,” I announce, stepping fully into the living room. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to call a raincheck on rom-com night.”
“No, why?” Rowena asks. The light catches on her glasses as she looks up from her phone, her chestnut braid swaying with the movement.
“I have to go save my idiot brother from himself.”
Hunter’s eyes get a little brighter at the mention of Dylan. “What happened?” she probes, her curiosity thinly masked.
“He’s trapped himself in the garbage disposal,” I explain, putting away my phone and pulling on a puffer jacket.
“Can’t the Prince of Darkness save him?”
I chuckle at Rowena’s use of our favorite nickname for my brother’s evil roommate. “On a business trip, the useless prick.” I ready myself to brave the cold, pulling on my Uggs over my pajamas. “If I hurry, I can be back in time to watch the movie.”
“You’re going in your PJs?” Rowena questions, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
“Yep, it’s only a couple of blocks. I’m not getting dressed again.”
“We should go with you,” Hunter suggests eagerly.
I frown. “Why would you want to go out in the freezing cold?”
“Your brother and the Prince of Darkness have a huge TV,” Hunter explains, blushing slightly.
“And they have premium cable,” Rowena interjects. “We could watch something new, instead of rewatching Love Actually for the millionth time. It’s only a couple of blocks, as you said.”
“Plus, you shouldn’t walk around the city alone at night,” Hunter insists.
“It’s decided,” Rowena declares “We’re moving the pajama party to your brother’s place.”
Dylan will be grumpy about the home invasion, but he’s the one who needs rescuing. I shrug. “Let’s go.”
* * *
I use my spare set of keys—the fact that I have them irks the Prince of Darkness to no end and is also why I’ll never give them back—to let myself into my brother’s building.
I know I’m in trouble when we step out of the elevator and hear the distant notes of a Justin Bieber song. The volume intensifies as we reach the corner unit—because my brother, the investment banker, and the Prince of Darkness, CEO of an evil tech corporation (I don’t really understand what his fintech company does but it must be something wicked if he runs it) live in the most expensive apartment on the top floor. Which, with New York’s real estate prices, would still have been impossible even with their fancy jobs. But Tristan’s father, probably Satan himself, gifted the place to his little mini demon as a graduation present. Dylan pays him a lowball rent, and they split expenses.
As I unlock the door and step into the apartment, the decibel level of the song becomes unbearable. I dash into the wide-open space, all modern furniture and wall-wide windows, trying to locate a shutoff button. From his half-reclining position over the sink, my brother stares murder at me but still points with his free hand to the smart speaker assistant on the shiny crystal coffee table.
When I pulled the prank on Dylan, I hadn’t expected him not to be able to shut off the album. But I didn’t consider that the sound system in Satan’s lair is concert-level loud. Dylan’s bad for his poor taste in roommates.
To make the music stop, I have to physically grab the speaker, bring the AI out in the hall, and impart the instructions where she can hear me. When I come back, Dylan is being interrogated by Rowena on the dynamics of his accident while Hunter just stares at him, lost in some sort of trance.
“I dropped my ring,” Dylan explains.
I roll my eyes as I remove my outer layers and pull my natural dark blonde hair up in a topknot. I hate that stupid ring. When my brother and the Prince of Darkness won the basketball national championship in their senior year at Duke, it was all anyone could talk about—for months. Over and over, I had to listen to how many blocks Dylan pulled off, how many shots from three Tristan sunk, and what a glorious game it was. One that I was forced to witness in person, to show my sisterly supportiveness. I wouldn’t have minded if it were only Dylan playing. But having to stomach number 666 swagger through the entire two halves, making acrobatic dunks, and sending more than one cheerleader to the emergency room with fainting spells was just too much—666 definitely wasn’t Tristan’s number, but that’s how I like to remember it.
I roll up the sleeves of my pajama top and step into the kitchen, beaming at my brother. “So, what do you want me to do?”
Dylan glares at me. “You left me in Bieber hell for half an hour. I’m going to strangle you the second I get free.”
Keeping a safe distance, I hop onto the black marble counter—black souls must come with black fixtures. “I’m glad you brought that up in advance, dearest brother, so we can negotiate the terms of your release.”
“Nina, I swear—”
“Hush, hush… here are my terms.” I count off my fingers. “I get an immediate pardon for the Bieber incident—I’m sorry, by the way, I didn’t know your speakers could produce a sonic boom.”
Dylan stares daggers at me but nods.
“I’m going to need verbal confirmation.”
“Apology accepted,” he grits out. Not like he has a choice. “And what else?”
“Me and the girls get to watch a movie of our choosing on your superior appliances and cable service.”
“Yeah, why did you bring the entire cheer squad?” He pushes his fringe of blond hair—unfairly lighter than mine—out of his face.
“We’re here for protection,” Hunter squeals a bit too loud. “Couldn’t let your sister walk alone in the middle of the night.”
“It’s not the eighties,” Dylan protests.
“They’re here for the premium streaming, mostly. Do you accept our terms?”
My brother’s eyes gleam with playful spite. “Next time one of your toilets clogs and you don’t know what to do, I’m going to have so much fun telling you to call a plumber.”
I cock my head. “Do you wish me to add unlimited plumbing support as a provision?”
“No. I take the deal.”
“Perfect.” I hop off the counter. “You gals pick a movie while I solve this.”
“Do you have popcorn?” Hunter asks my brother.
“Second cabinet to the left.”
She finds the snacks and pops them into the microwave—also black. “Thanks.”
“How do I free you?” I ask Dylan.
“There’s a toolbox under the sink in the laundry room. You’re going to need to unscrew the disposal from underneath.”
That’s how, ten minutes later, I end up with a deluge of triturated, decomposing, wet refuse on my chest. “Ew.” I emerge from under the sink. “You owe me big time for this brother, big time.”
“The Bieber thing makes us even,” Dylan says, massaging his wrist.
“I’m going to need a shower.”
“Be quick,” Hunter calls from where they’re nestled on the gigantic sectional couch. “We want to watch the movie.”
“Trust me, no one wants to be rid of this garbage faster than me.”
I step out of the kitchen, wiping my dirty hands on my already ruined flannel PJ top, and freeze when I hear a key turn in the front door’s lock.
I’m still frozen in place when the Prince of Darkness enters the apartment and finds me standing in his living room with sewage running down my chest and smelling like the aftermath of a skunk convention.
Two sworn enemies, snowed in over Christmas with chemistry that will melt the ice!
Out September 4 at all book shops!
Amazon & Kindle Unlimited
Apple Books
Kobo & Kobo Plus
All other e-book and audiobook retailers
Chapter One - Don't Kiss and Spell
A Wizard, a Seer, and a Raccoon Walk into a RoomRILEY
Chief Inquisitor Riley King killed the engine of his black sedan and sighed as he picked up the bouquet of vervain flowers, briar shrubs, and a handful of sorry-I’m-late-for-Christmas-Eve-dinner-Mom, from the passenger seat.
His father had died years ago, leaving his mom a relatively young widow. And Riley felt immensely guilty whenever he let his mother down. Even if only by being forty-five minutes late for dinner—hence the flowers.
He got out of the car, taking in Glenda’s apparently quiet residential neighborhood. It was a dark night, threatening snow and the end of the world. A breeze was crying down the street, whisking along battered newspapers and pieces of loosened Christmas decorations while the streetlamps overhead flickered most ominously. Riley hoped it wasn’t a magic crackle storm in the making. He already had enough of a bad day as it was.
He locked his car and crossed the street toward Chiron Manor. His mother’s house was considered radical, even in the witching community, both for its lack of conventionality and for its in-your-face disregard of intermixing guidelines. Upon looking at it, there was no mistaking it for a human house with its black paint and its many floors and winding turrets—one with an eight-pointed star painted just above a window. No human architect could have made such a building stand without the help of magic.
The only time of the year when the house blended seamlessly into the neighborhood was during the month of October when his mom was free to leave all her magical trinkets out in the open and pass them off as Halloween decorations.
Two months later, apparently, she had neglected to recover quite a few of those “ornaments” from the front yard. As he walked up the driveway, Riley noted at least five different violations of the Conformism Act of 1792. Good thing he didn’t work for the Intermixing Department and that tonight, he was finally off duty.
Riley rang the bell, pondering the right amount of groveling and charming he’d have to unleash on his mother.
But he needn’t have worried. Like every other woman on the planet, not even Glenda King—the most renowned and trusted seer on the East Coast—could stay mad at him for long.
In fact, when she came to answer the door with her lips pressed into a thin, stern line, her expression melted in a second flat at Riley’s first dashing smile.
“Mom.” He pulled her into a bear hug and then gave her the bouquet. “Sorry I’m late.”
Glenda gracefully accepted the flowers, taking a sniff at the blossomy scent mixed with filial guilt.
She arched an eyebrow. “Work again?”
“Yes, you wouldn’t believe the amount of crazy I had to deal with today.” Riley walked into the house and shut the front door. “It’s like every witch and wizard in town decided to settle their personal feuds around the holidays.” He hung his coat on the rack behind the door. “This year, Christmas is turning out worse than Halloween. Revenge hexes, illegal potions, bootleg charms, sanctionable curses… You name it, I had to deal with it all in the past week.”
Glenda sighed and shook her head as they walked down the hall toward the dining room. “You work too much, my dear son, just like your father.”
“Don’t worry, Mom.” Riley wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “I have it all under control.”
“That’s not why I’m sighing.” Riley’s mother stopped next to the round dinner table, which was laid for three, and shrugged his arm off.
Before Riley could sit, she took his hands in hers. “But, for once, I hoped you were late because of a woman.”
Without waiting for a reply, she dropped his hands and moved into the kitchen, coming back two minutes later with a steaming casserole filled with a whole turkey crisped to golden perfection.
Glenda dropped the turkey in the center of the table. “You know the last girlfriend you introduced me to was Amelie in high school?”
Riley knew all too well since his mother took great pains to remind him exactly that only every single time they saw each other. And to keep in line with the tradition, he gave her the same answer he always did. “That’s because I haven’t met anyone special yet, but I promise you’ll be the first to know when I do.”
Riley had no intention of ever getting tangled in a serious relationship, not after the way his parents’ marriage had ended—death, pain, solitude. But he was wise enough not to share that intel with his mom. Instead, he kept humoring her desire for a daughter-in-law.
The script went on with Glenda’s next line—they still had a few to cycle through before they could eat. Glenda would remind him he wasn’t getting any younger, and that if he kept waiting any longer before becoming serious about finding a wife, all the good witches his age would be taken. To which Riley would joke he’d find a witch of a different age. And finally, Glenda would conclude he’d better find one of witchling-bearing age because she wanted grandwitchlings and she also wasn’t getting any younger.
Once all of that was taken care of, they were finally free to move on to the dinner.
Riley changed the subject as fast as he could, regaling his mother with a story about a spell gone wrong he’d been saving all week exactly for this purpose. A witch had tried to curse her date to fall in love with her but ended up making herself irresistible to all manner of insects and pixies.
He was delivering the punch line about how the witch they’d subsequently arrested had sprouted distress antennas while in interrogation from all the itching when Myron, Glenda’s raccoon familiar, sauntered into the room and took the last empty seat at the dinner table.
“The prodigal son returns,” the raccoon said. “I fell asleep waiting for you.”
His story ruined, Riley clenched his jaws. “Sorry, Myron, but some of us actually have to work for a living. Mom understands how important my job is.”
Myron snickered. “Why the flowers then?”
“Enough,” Glenda cut them off. She sliced a piece of turkey and dropped it on Myron’s plate. “Can’t the two of you go two minutes without bickering, not even on Christmas Eve?”
“Apparently not,” Riley replied, stuffing another bite into his mouth.
Myron, momentarily distracted by the food, didn’t reply at all. He used his paws to tear the meat apart and chewed on a few scraps before he spoke again. “So, Inquisitor King, what’s new at the Department of Magical Justice?”
The title of inquisitor was usually used, if not with downright fear, at least with a healthy amount of respect. But not when it came out of Myron’s muzzle. He somehow made the appellation sound derogatory.
“I already told my mom all the good stories. Sorry you were asleep and missed out.”
Myron snickered, his black beady eyes twinkling. “Then perhaps we should talk about your love life.”
And Riley had walked right into that trap. If he’d already excluded his job as a topic of conversation, his personal life was fair game.
Riley kept quiet, and Myron winked at him.
The raccoon raised his glass, asking Glenda for some Dragonfire ale, and, after taking a sip, he went on torturing Riley, whom he saw as his only competition for Glenda’s affection. “Seriously, Riley? Still single at your age?” Then he turned to the woman of the house again. “You know what, Glenda? I think it’s past time you gave him a reading. At least this way we’ll know for sure how long we have to wait for grandwitchlings.”
Between gritted teeth, Riley said, “And you know perfectly well I don’t let my mother read into my future.”
Myron, appearing mock-shocked, brought his clawed black paw to his chest. “Oh, but I thought that since you were almost an hour late for Christmas dinner, maybe you’d make an exception tonight.” Myron bared his fangs in a vicious smirk.
Glenda rarely took sides in their verbal sparring, but she’d also been nagging Riley for ages, desperate to delve into his future with a tarot spread.
“Riley,” she said. “Why don’t you let me? Just this time? It’d be the best Christmas present.”
“Mom, you know I don’t like the idea of knowing my future. Whatever you told me would make me go about things in a different, forced way and probably screw everything good I had coming to me.”
Riley could see his mom was ready to concede to his point when Myron delivered the kiss of death. “Then let her read the cards and not tell you anything… just for her peace of mind.”
Glenda’s eyes shone with so much hope that Riley didn’t have the heart to say no. And if his mother really told him nothing, what difference would it make what she did or didn’t see in his future?
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do it!”
Glenda cleared the table at the speed of light, and not even Myron protested when she took his plate away before he could finish his dinner.
Plates and cutlery were replaced by candles and crystals, and Glenda brought to the table the silver chest where she kept her most special tarots, displaying the same pride in carrying them she had shown when she’d brought over the perfectly roasted turkey not an hour earlier.
Riley’s mother took the tarots out, set the chest aside, and began to shuffle. When she was satisfied, she dropped the deck of cards on the table, saying, “Cut for me please, darling?”
Without giving it too much thought, Riley split the deck into two neat halves and laid the top one next to the other.
Next, his mom made him pick three sets of three random cards from the deck. Clairvoyancy had never been one of his favorite subjects in magical school, and he’d dropped it the second the mandatory credits were over. But even he remembered three was the number of harmony. One for unity, plus two for disorder. And that nine, or three times three, was considered the number of perfect harmony.
But beyond that basic understanding of the process, he had no way of telling what the spread before him meant.
His mother kept a perfect poker face. Riley wasn’t sure if she was just keeping true to her word or if it was a tactic to bait him into asking what she was seeing. Myron, instead, kept nodding and making “ah” and “oh” noises each time a new tarot was revealed. Riley ignored him. Without Glenda’s interpretation, the raccoon was just as clueless about the meaning of the spread as Riley was.
Just as Glenda turned Riley’s ninth card, his phone went off in his pocket. Feeling already more than guilty for his tardiness, Riley let it ring. Someone else could take care of whatever loose jinx the call was about.
But when the phone started ringing again mere seconds after it had stopped, Riley shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. The office never called twice unless it was something serious.
“Go ahead,” Glenda said. “They wouldn’t disturb you tonight if it wasn’t important.”
“Inquisitor King,” Riley said into the phone, then his jaw tensed at what the voice on the other side said.
His only reply was a one-word question. “Where?”
“I’ll be right there.” He concluded the phone call and looked up at his mother. “Mom, I—”
“You have to go,” she anticipated him. “I know.”
“Mom, I’m really sorry. I wouldn’t leave… but it’s a murder investigation. They need me.”
Glenda stood up. “Riley, dear, I completely understand. Don’t worry. Your job is so important. I’m glad for all that you do for the community.” She had a weird softness to her voice and looked like she was making her best effort not to smile. “Don’t worry about your decrepit old mother.”
In all the times Riley had had to leave her earlier than planned on a work call, tonight’s was by far the weirdest, most unusual reaction. No complaining, no guilt-tripping, not even genuine sorrow to see him go. Glenda seemed elated that Riley had to go investigate a murder.
But he already had enough mysteries to solve for one night, so he simply gathered Glenda’s frail form into his arms and cajoled her a little, “You’re not old, Mom.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead for good measure. “And are you sure it’s okay if I go?”
“Si, yes, oui… go!”
She practically pushed him out of the house. Riley barely had time to pull her into another quick hug before Glenda shoved the front door in his face.
Riley was even more puzzled but had no time to dwell on his mom’s strange behavior. The moment he stepped out of her house, he left behind his doting son role and assumed that of Essex County Chief Inquisitor.
A bell in the distance rang ten strokes.
Two hours until Christmas, and what a lousy holiday it was going to be this year.
***
MYRON
Myron watched Glenda escort her son to the door and then come back into the living room, humming Jingle Bells under her breath.
The raccoon stared at his witch, a little perplexed. Usually, whenever her hotshot son left on a work assignment, which happened often, Glenda got all droopy and moody, but tonight, she was dancing on air.
“You seem awfully chirp for a mother whose son arrived late for Christmas Eve’s dinner and left early on top of that.”
“Myron, Myron,” she sing sang. “Have you looked at the cards?”
Of course, he had. But Glenda also knew that he lacked the powers of divination to correctly interpret the spread without her help. He took another look at the three tidy rows. “Care to enlighten me?”
“Look at the last row, Myron.” Glenda sat back down at the table and tapped the line of cards at the bottom of the spread. “Can’t you see why I’m so happy?”
The raccoon studied the cards lined on the last row: Justice, The Lovers, and The Moon.
“What do they mean?”
Glenda clapped her hands, smiling. “That my Riley is going to arrest his one true love before the night is over.”
Myron furrowed his brow, even more perplexed. “Should I remind you he just left on a murder investigation?”
“Oh, please. Have a little faith, you old, grumpy raccoon.” With one last adoring look at the tarots spread on the table, Glenda collected them in her hands and put the deck back into its honorary silver chest. “I bet it’ll be a great story to tell my grandwitchlings one day…”
“Will they be born in prison?” Myron snickered.
“Don’t be a Scrooge, Myron,” she chided him. “Love is in the air tonight. I can feel it in my old witch bones.”
And even Myron knew not to contest Glenda’s premonitions, not when her old witch bones were called upon.
###
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