Smooth and mellow meets spunky and sweet
Lisa Kirkpatrick is stubborn, but she’s not stupid. If this guy needs a date to evade an unwanted admirer, who is she to object? It’s not as if handsome men are lining up to ask her out. Sure, they know there’s a woman in the wheelchair, but it would never occur to them that there’s a WOMAN in the wheelchair. He notices. This solid, fun, straight-shooting guy ticks off every box on her ideal man list. But why do they call him Slick? Roger Plankey thought his life was full until he walked into the town clerk’s office and laid eyes on the woman behind the counter. A spunky, independent woman with a dash of humor and just enough sass to keep him on his toes. She fills that unknown void in his life like she was made for him. But is there such a thing as too perfect?
“If you’re running from the law, you’ve come to the wrong place.” A woman leaning out of the town clerk’s service window pointed to the police department across the hall. She wore a black felt witch’s hat, and orange pumpkins dangled from her ears, as brilliant as the smile on her face. Well, well, well. “It’s not the cops I need,” he admitted, approaching the window and thrusting his hand out in greeting. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. Roger Plankey.” “Lisa Kirkpatrick.” Her skin was soft against his work-roughened palm, her beautifully manicured nails a sharp contrast to his blunt-tipped square fingers. Halloween decorations sparkled on the black-painted ovals, but nothing shone from her left ring finger. He checked. “Are you new here, Lisa?” “I’m the deputy clerk. I work when Maisie needs a day off.” “Ahh, that would explain why we haven’t met before.” Reluctantly, he took his hand back to retrieve paperwork from the inside pocket of his canvas barn jacket. “I’ve got a bunch of vehicles to register.” He passed the documents through the window, letting his gaze wander over her pretty face while she scanned them. Brown hair curled against the brim of her witch’s hat and caressed the nape of her neck. Thick eyelashes feathered high apple cheeks, and when they lifted, her hazel eyes reminded him of spring rain on the meadow.
Amber Cross was raised on a family farm in New England, one of a dozen siblings, each one inspiring her writing in some way. She still lives in that same small town with her husband and the youngest of their five children. She loves spending time in the woods, in the water, and watching people because every one of them has a unique and fascinating story to tell.