Read More Than Cookies (The Maple Leaf Series) Online
Authors: Christine DePetrillo
“Why don’t you stop by the house and find out?”
Pink instantly colored what was visible of Jake’s cheeks, and he picked up a rag to mop at non-existent spots on the bar. “Oh, I couldn’t… I mean… I…”
Hope reached across the bar to stop the man’s frenzied wiping. “Jake.”
“Yeah?”
“You’ll never get anywhere if you don’t take a first step.”
If only it were that easy.
“I know, darlin’, but your daddy was my good buddy. It wouldn’t be right.” He shook his head as he turned to straighten some bottles behind him.
“My dad has been dead for a long time, Jake.”
About thirty years long.
“My mother has been alone for a long time.”
Jake turned around. “I didn’t think of it that way.”
“Maybe you should.” Hope stood. “Why don’t you come by the house the day after tomorrow, and we’ll fill out a questionnaire for what you want on the website. Mom will be around, and we’ll see what happens.”
Jake nodded, his hand back to wiping the bar. If he kept that up, he’d wipe the finish right off.
Hope waved over her head as she walked toward the front doors of the tavern. Her mind was full of new ideas for the bar’s website. She’d have plenty of time to pump out that project, because she’d finished her previous project—a website for her cousin Rick’s and his wife’s bed and breakfast inn. Hindsdale Inn was tucked into the woods. Located one property over from her cousin’s property where he churned out pure maple syrup when the season arrived, Hindsdale Inn was the perfect combination of nature meets glitz. Hope had coined the term “rustic glamour” to describe it. Within moments of officially publishing the site with its description of the enormous log home, photos of the exquisite interior, and a virtual tour of the grounds and mountain views, six people had inquired about booking reservations.
Thinking of that now, Hope gave herself a mental pat on the back. She could crank out a website that hooked people like nobody’s business. All self-taught, she’d figured out things on her own between sugaring seasons. Customers had been happy with her end products. Now she’d be able to link Black Wolf Tavern to Hinsdale Inn and hopefully increase business for both places.
If she could just find her damn keys in her purse, she could get home and start on a basic design for Jake’s website. Outside in the parking lot, she needed more light to see into that dumpster she carried around on her shoulder. Five o’clock in late January meant the sun had gone to sleep already, and Vermont knew how to take the word
dark
and mean it. With no other cars in the lot, because the tavern was closed on Mondays, piles of plowed snow were the only company Hope had out there.
She angled her purse toward the single lantern light above the bar’s front entrance and shook the sack.
“I hear you in there,” she said to the jingling sound.
After another shake, light glinted off something silver in the black depths of the purse.
“Gotcha.”
As she plunged her hand in to grab the keys, something big pinned her to the building behind her. She tried to scream, but a gloved hand came over her mouth, muffling her cry for help. The darkness kept her from being able to see her attacker’s face, but he was much taller than her, broad shouldered, and sweaty smelling. And strong.
He yanked at her purse, but it was still hooked on her arm and pain shot up to her shoulder. She would have been more than happy to give him the damn purse—he’d be grossly disappointed by its contents—but he was too close for her to wiggle the strap off her arm. When he growled and jerked at the purse again, tears came to her eyes. If this kept up, she’d end up with a broken arm.
I hope that’s all I end up with.
Not a good thought. Not at all. She considered ways to defend herself, but they mostly involved kicks to the groin and the way he had plastered himself against her left her no options.
Where the heck is Jake?
He’d at least be able to distract her attacker so she could deliver a groin pounding.
The glove still covering her mouth was getting moist from her breath, and its rough knit chafed her cheeks. Her stomach chose that moment to let out a famished roar which made her attacker snicker. Snickering was never good on the villain’s part. Never.
“Hungry, beautiful?” He released his hold on the purse and used that free hand to stroke her hair. Her flesh prickled and she pressed her body farther into the wall behind her. That didn’t offer her much additional space, but every centimeter counted at this point. “I got something you can feed on.” He leaned in closer, rubbing his cheek over hers.
A full body shiver shook Hope against his body, which, if the noises coming from his throat were any indication, he liked very much. She forced herself to stay still and remain calm, both goals slipping away as more time ticked by.
“Suddenly your purse is not enough,” the guy said. “I want the whole deal.”
She still couldn’t see his face, but was more than sure she didn’t—did not—want to give him “the whole deal.”
When he leaned forward, pressing his entire body against hers in one rigid line, Hope wished to be anywhere, absolutely anywhere, else in the world, but she wasn’t. She was here. She was where she’d lived for the past thirty years. She was where she’d spent every single day since she was born. She was in the town she called home.
And she’d be damned if this asshole was going to ruin home for her.
As the man snaked his arm around her waist, Hope gained enough space to jerk her knee up and make contact. At the same time he let out a howl, he was ripped off her and thrown to the ground. She took a second to look at her knee, wondering where enough power to knock him off his feet had come from.
“Listen, fucker, you do not treat a lady like that.”
Hope snapped her head up at the familiar male voice. Another dark outline hovered over her attacker still prone on the dirt parking lot.
“I just needed money, man.”
“I don’t give a shit what you need. You’re not getting it from her.”
A cell phone flashlight threw a circle of light on her attacker’s face. It wasn’t anyone she recognized from what she could barely see, but his bloodshot, glossy eyes were evidence of what he probably needed money for.
Her savior reached down, grabbed a handful of her attacker’s jacket, and wrenched him to his feet in one fluid motion. “Let me get you a ride.” There was a pause then, “Hey, Kevin. I have a junkie over at Black Wolf. He attacked Hope Stannard. Can you come get him?” Another pause. “I think so. I’ll find out.” Pause. “Yeah. Thanks.” The cell phone glow disappeared into a back pocket.
“Look, man. Just let me go. I didn’t hurt her. I won’t do that again.”
“No, you absolutely won’t. We’re going to wait here for my buddy, Officer Kevin Sencotte, to swing by and take over.”
“Fuck you!”
Hope’s attacker jostled free of the grip on him. He swung his arm out, his fist cracking into jaw. Her savior backed away from the low life for a minute, which was all said low life needed to bolt into the darkness.
A spitting sound was followed by, “I don’t think so.”
Heavy footfalls took off after her attacker, leaving her still leaning against the tavern. She hadn’t moved since the weight of the assailant had been lifted. She was paralyzed with two contradictory emotions—fear and fascination. She feared for her safety, but that was quickly being replaced by fear for her savior’s safety.
And the fascination?
Well, what wasn’t fascinating about a man you didn’t quite understand coming to your rescue?
She squinted in the darkness, but couldn’t see that man now. She dragged in a couple of deep breaths and yelled, “Adam!”
Check
www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com
for release information!
Other Available Titles by Christine DePetrillo
Alaska Heart
Firefly Mountain
Kisses to Remember
Abra Cadaver
Lazuli Moon
Dive (mermaid anthology with Joseph Mazzenga, Heather Rigney, Rachel Moniz)
Night Eternal (gothic poetry with author Joseph Mazzenga)
Young Adult Romance writing as Christy Major
Run With Me
Sail With Me
Co-writing as Goodwin Reed
A Less Perfect Union
About the Author
Christine DePetrillo
tried not being a writer. She attempted to ignore the voices in her head, but they would not stop. The only way she could achieve peace and quiet was to write the stories the voices demanded. Today, she writes tales meant to make you laugh, maybe make you sweat, and definitely make you believe in the power of love.
She lives in Rhode Island and occasionally Vermont with her husband, two cats, and a big, black German Shepherd.
Find Christine’s other titles at
www.
christinedepetrillo.weebly.com
. Connect on Facebook at
www.facebook.com/christinedepetrilloauthor
, on Twitter at @cdepetrillo, and at The Roses of Prose group blog on the 4
th
and 14
th
of every month at
www.
rosesofprose.blogspot.com
.
Table of Contents
Books One and Three in the Maple Leaf Series