Okay, so, this is a Book Hook, and I have a collection. Here’s how I’ll make it work: these are the first 200 words and change from the first chapter of each story.
I hope they will make you want to know more!
Also, it’s a PRE-SALE DEAL – 3 stories, 0.99 $ until release day February 14th.
All Those Miles I Walked
Crescent Creek, June.
12 years later
The bitch was back.
Daphne Jaqueline Sheffield. She used to be DJ for him and the million friends she’d had.
Scott had known it was her the second she’d stepped into the bakery and said hello. He would have recognized her voice everywhere. Low. Smokey. With a chuckle that back in the days had sent his system on red alert.
Damn her, and him. Forget about self-control, forget about being over her big time. Forget about everything sane and reasonable. For a moment, in his head and heart, it was a dirt mess. As her voice hit him, 12 years ago was yesterday, when he had been in love and still believed she loved him back just much. At the same time though, the ache of every hour, day, week, month, spent hurting for her crushed on him. He felt each of those thorns in his flesh.
He held his ground, didn’t turn around to look at her. The display of breads on Bread and Butter’s shelves, the May siblings’ bakery, was a good enough place to look at right about now, at least until he had a firmer grip on his temper. Scott crossed his arms on his chest. After all these years, she still possessed the ability to piss him off just by being in the same room. An accomplishment per se, he didn’t feel like going to her and offering congratulations.
Crescent Creek, January
It made no sense. Madness, pure and simple.
First of all, what was wrong with the weather? The calendar said January, for crying out loud. A full sun might be acceptable, but not the temperature. Her phone stated twenty-one Celsius, around seventy in Fahrenheit. Besides the obvious wrongness, it made pulling her luggage (while carrying a backpack and the camera bag) into plain hell.
Then, the wedding madness.
Bits and pieces of crowd had started to show as Florence neared the town center–downtown. By the time she’d reached the white barriers closing up the heart of Crescent Creek, it was clear something was going on. Might be a festival, or maybe market day. She thought of every possibility except the real one.
A wedding. To be more precise, a town wedding, as the couple she’d stopped had told her. They must have been joking, what did that even mean?
Then she’d stopped a man with full mustaches and a robust old face. His reply didn’t change. A woman in her thirties with a baby in a stroller confirmed it.
Someone got married and used the whole town as a venue for a wedding party everyone was invited to.
Did it mean she was crushing a wedding?
His Midnight Sun
Crescent Creek, early July.
With no fight left in him, Aidan Murphy sank down on the wooden floor of his home studio.
Aidan filled his burning sight with the finished, almost 7 feet tall piece of art. Hell to work on, pure and simple, but it couldn’t be helped, not when it had called to him with such powerful voice.
Two weeks earlier, he’d been wandering around the stone-site when his skin began humming, and his heart beating faster. Years of sculpting had taught him how to hear the calling, the silent scream of whatever form lay trapped inside the rocks begging him to free it.
He’d followed his guts like so many times before and laying a palm on the cold, white alabaster, had known something waited in there. He’d bought the squared monstrosity, never stopped working on it since the day it had been delivered to his address. At every bite of the masonry blade, at every kiss of the chisel and caress of the rasp, its voice had been easier to hear, pushing him, constantly pushing him to keep going, keep working.
A couple had emerged from the stone and if beauty could hurt, by God, this one would in so many ways. Those two people were set to break any viewer’s heart. Nothing happy or gleeful about them, nothing about being lost in the fallacy of love; the pair stood in a tight embrace made of disillusion and reality. Rightfully so, because wasn’t love just that? Another form of pain? A delusion?
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