3 Wishes by Peggy Jaeger
I have the privilege of welcoming New Hampshire author, Peggy Jaeger, whose novella, "3 Wishes," is part of the 40-author, Candy Hearts Romance series released for Valentine's Day. Peggy admits that she was born and breed in Brooklyn, NY, and has the dropped "r's" to prove it. Every sentence sounds like she's asking a question.
When asked how she relaxes, Peggy says that reading and cooking are her main wind-downs at the end of the day. She has over one hundred cookbooks that are dog-eared and well-loved. "Whenever I’m feeling especially stressed, I pull one out and make a new dish. Diving head first into a new recipe takes my mind away from worry, frees me to use the creative part of my brain, and allows me to just let all the stressors float away. Love that." she says.
What is she reading? "I just finished BROTHERHOOD IN DEATH by J.D. Robb, aka Nora Roberts, and I started an oldies by Jennifer Probst titled, ALL THE WAY. Love her."
Blurb:
Valentine's Day is chocolatier Chloe San Valentino's favorite day of the year. Not only is it the busiest day in her candy shop, Caramelle de Chloe, but it's also her birthday. Chloe's got a birthday wish list for the perfect man she pulls out every year: he'd fall in love with her in a heartbeat, he'd be someone who cares about people, and he 'd have one blue eye and one green eye, just like her. So far, Chloe's fantasy man hasn't materialized, despite the matchmaking efforts of her big, close-knit Italian family. But this year for her big 3-0 birthday, she just might get her three wishes.
Excerpt:
At about five minutes of ten I was
almost ready to turn the Closed sign
on the door when it opened. I heard Janie’s breath hitch and turned from where
I was sweeping up. Staying open late is always a risk, with the thought thieves
will invade at the end of the day.
If the guy standing at the door
glancing around the shop was a thief, then Dio
mio, I wanted to be robbed.
About six foot, his hair was the
color of a deer’s pelt, with autumnal golds and browns shot together in a
glorious patchwork that grazed the collar of his jacket and curled a little at
the ends. He wore a faded brown bomber jacket over a shirt I couldn’t see, but
he had shoulders almost as wide as my doorway. A pair of well-worn jeans
covered his mile long legs, and the fabric on the stress points at his knees
was practically white.
“We’re about to close,” I heard
myself say. “Can I help you?”
It was at that moment he looked over
at me.
His face could have been sculpted by
Da Vinci or Michelangelo. A broad, smooth, forehead housed naturally arched
eyebrows I knew some of my gay guy friends would have paid a fortune to have on
their own faces. His cheeks were carved from marble, high, smooth and deep. And
his mouth, mother-of-God, his mouth.
Full, thick beautiful lips sat perfectly over a chin with a dent you could
shove a button into and have it stay put.
“Sorry,” he said, those fabulous
lips pulling up a little shyly at the corners. “I got stuck at work and
couldn’t get here until now. I’ll be quick. Promise.”
So here’s the thing: the guy was
gorgeous. But even if he’d looked like a frog with raw antipasto smothering his
face, I would have dropped to my knees when he opened his mouth. Warm honey, a
shot of raw whiskey, and a little hot puff of smoke wafted from his mouth like
a fine and rare brandy being decanted.
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