Spooning Daisy
by Maggie McConnell
GENRE: Contemporary Romance
BLURB:
Her mango chutney is exquisite; her blueberry sauce is to die for.
But right now, Chef de Cuisine Daisy Moon is a woman without a kitchen--and
without a fiancé. Unceremoniously dumped from her place of business and her
relationship, Daisy sells her belongings, plus a few of her ex's, and packs her
bags. Maybe smashing all the china in her former restaurant was a bad move.
Stripped of her Golden Spoon for "un-chef-like" conduct, she is now
blacklisted all over Seattle. Her sole job offer is from the Wild Man Lodge. .
.in Otter Bite, Alaska.
Too bad Daisy can't even get out of Dodge without incident. By the
time she boards a ship for Alaska, she's got a trail of new troubles behind
her, and suddenly Otter Bite is sounding pretty good. But the vessel turns into
her own personal Titanic when a series of close encounters confirms her
terrible taste in men--including one very good looking bad luck charm named Max
Kendall. She vows to dedicate the rest of her days to chowders and brulée. Yet
even Alaska isn't far enough away to shake the memories of the sexy shipmate
who rocked her cabin--and her world. Thank goodness she's done with
surprises--but they may not be done with her. . .
EXCERPT:
“What’ll ya take for this?” Daisy
Moon lifted her glazed eyes from a makeshift plywood table where she had been
tidying pieces of her past. She focused on the midlife, mostly brunette whose
brassy streaks fit her gravel voice. Backlit by the golden afternoon pushing
into the garage, the woman appeared heaven-sent. After a closer look, Daisy
knew better.
In her right hand, a cigarette was
wedged between two fingers while her left hand strangled a porcelain figurine,
its milky pastels and melted contours in unhappy contrast to the black polish
on the woman’s talons.
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t
smoke,” Daisy said politely. “There’s a bucket outside—”
Too late. The cigarette was crushed
between the sole of one strappy stiletto sandal and the pristine concrete of
Daisy’s double garage.
“So how much?”
A cloud dulled the sun and the
saintly aura faded. Stepping back to allow yet another stranger to judge the
resale value of her life, Daisy answered the brunette. “Doesn’t the tag say
fifty dollars?” as if she couldn’t remember how, in the wee hours of the
morning while Lady Antebellum pleaded “Need You Now,” she’d painstakingly tied
the price tag around the necks of the porcelain lovers.
“Ye-ahh,” the woman answered as if
Daisy were dense. “But how much will you take?”
“Excuse me,” a voice from behind
interrupted. “What size is this?”
Daisy turned to a stout woman who
held a Kelly-green midcalf skirt and matching short jacket. Daisy loved that
suit—it perfectly complemented her Irish genes—but love wasn’t a good enough
reason to keep something that squeezed the breath from her. “Size six.”
“Is there some place I could try it
on?”
“Try it on . . . ?” Daisy imagined
popped buttons and exploding seams.
“I’ll handle this,” Charity Wagstaff
whispered, coming through the milling browsers. “You take care of Cruella.”
Daisy shot her eyes toward the
heavens.
“But remember,” her best friend
softly chided, “you’re turning the page, moving on, taking risks. You’re
letting go—”
“I know, I know.” Forcing a smile,
Daisy attended to the brunette. “Make me an offer.”
“Ten bucks.”
“Ten bucks? That’s a Lladró!”
The brunette stared impatiently, as
if she were tapping a foot. “It’s a limited edition and it cost $275 last year.
They’ve probably broken the mold.”
“Well, if it’s so valuable, why’re
y’ selling it?”
Because it was meant to crown the
top layer of a fabulous, fivetier Amaretto wedding cake . . . “Because I’m
moving,” Daisy said instead. “And I don’t have the room.”
The brunette yawned.
“It’s like this—” Daisy tried to
look pitiful. But it took memories of her long-departed mutt, Sophie, to
produce the tears needed for effect. “My husband died and I have to downsize.”
“Twenty bucks,” countered the
dry-eyed shopper.
“She’ll take it,” Charity said,
sneaking up from behind.
Her auburn frizz quivering with
indignation, Daisy spun toward the sunny blonde. “Have you lost your mind? It’s
worth more than twenty dollars. It’s worth more than fifty dollars!”
“Let it go.”
“It’s so beautiful.”
“It’s only clay. Let it go.”
“I don’t have all day.” The woman
held out a rumpled bill. “Y’ want the twenty or not?”
Reaching across the plywood, Charity
snatched the money. “I’ve changed my mind, it’s not for sale!”
Daisy screamed. Charity blocked her
attempt to chase the woman, who fled down the drive like a hyena with carrion.
Daisy wilted, then quickly tensed.
The browsing had stopped and all eyes were upon her. A Miss Marple–type linked
elbows with her equally tweedy companion and the two scurried out of the
garage, pausing briefly at the garden tools displayed along the drive before
glancing back and continuing their escape.
Sympathetically, Charity said, “Why
don’t you take a break? You’ve been at this for hours.”
Daisy took a shuddering breath, the
embarrassment and humiliation of the last year dumping on her like a sudden
downpour. She didn’t even know these people who were picking over the remnants
of her life. Why should she care what they thought? It was her garage—for
another two weeks. If she wanted, she could be as contrary and unpredictable as
the Seattle weather.
“Maybe a short break,” Daisy
conceded, before wending her way between bookshelves and lamps and a widescreen
television marked with a SOLD sign. Who could’ve predicted that only weeks
after Jason had replaced his reliable television with a sleeker
state-of-the-art model, he’d do the same with his fiancée?
Certainly not Daisy, who,
nonetheless, had taken the high road, thanks to the example set by her mother,
a corporate wife who always kept her smile in the face of adversity. With more
at stake than just her personal relationship, Daisy had been civil, allowing
Jason to move out at his leisure; she had never intended to keep either the
television or the telltale Callaway golf clubs until she received the certified
letter from Dritz Klak & Smite.
She’d fantasized about bashing the
$2,500 television with the $600 driver, but the ever-pragmatic Charity
convinced her to sell them instead.
“You’ll get the best price on eBay,”
Charity had told her. But money was less the objective than expediency; Daisy
didn’t have time to photograph, upload, monitor, and mail. And fear of another
“Craigslist Killer” kept her away from that website. So, the old-fashioned
method it was; anything remaining at day’s end would be donated to the SPCA
thrift shop.
Of course, Jason didn’t know his
precious belongings were the main course at a garage sale.
Although short-lived, the thought
cheered Daisy as she passed from the netherworld of her garage into the haven
of her kitchen. But not before fluffing the potpourri of carnation petals
strategically placed between a crystal mantel clock and a silver-plated chafing
dish.

AUTHOR BIO:
Golden
Heart nominee Maggie McConnell spent her childhood in Asia and South America as
the daughter of US diplomats. Attending college in Illinois, she earned a BA in
Art and an MBA while working at the local animal shelter. At 26, she packed her
dog and cat into a Ford truck and drove the Alcan Highway to Alaska, where she
spent 23 years exploring The Last Frontier in single-engine Cessnas. An
animal-rights advocate and vegan, Maggie provides a sanctuary on her Arizona
ranch for all creatures great and small. Her compass still points north.

Working It
by Leah Marie
Brown
GENRE: Contemporary Romance
BLURB:
With her trust fund
and coveted job at Christian Dior, Fanny Moreau believes she has it all. But
when her best friend finds a fulfilling new career abroad—and a dreamy
relationship with a great guy, Fanny’s fabulous life suddenly feels empty.
Inspired to find her true purpose, she trades her cushy lifestyle in San
Francisco for an adventure in the Alaskan wilderness.
Everyone thinks Fanny
has gone off the deep end. What’s a girl with a Ph.D in Prada doing teaching in
an Inuit village? Even Fanny is wondering, especially when she comes face to
face with Calder MacFarlane. The Scottish search and rescue pilot is everything
Fanny is not—selfless, heroic, and used to living on the edge. He’s also the
man who once loved her best friend. Yet something in Calder’s sexy gaze has her
believing that she’s a woman capable of great things—a woman who might just
find her own happily-ever-after, in a place where she least expects it.
EXCERPT:
The worst day of my life started
with an unfortunate spritz of perfume.
Every tragedy can be traced back to
one fatal mistake, one seemingly insignificant miscalculation that sets into
motion a series of small blunders resulting in utter catastrophe.
Take James Cameron winning the Oscar
for Titanic over Gus Van Sant for Good Will Hunting. If the Titanic’s wireless
operator had known how to work the Marconi efficiently, he might have
translated the warning messages about ice in the area, the unsinkable ship
would have remained afloat, and James Cameron wouldn’t have won the Oscar for a
hopelessly insipid movie.
If Christian Lacroix had added jet
beads to his pared-back coat dresses and peplum skirts, his ’09 Fall Collection
might have been the buzz of the season; instead, fashion editors and snarky
bloggers lamented the loss of his talent.
One seemingly insignificant
snowball-sized mistake starts its journey down the mountain, and before you
know it, a shit avalanche is descending upon you.
My best friend, Vivian—her name is
Vivia, but I call her Vivian because it’s more glam—coined the phrase “shit
avalanche.” It’s an unpalatably graphic and overblown phrase and not one I use
often, but it superbly describes my situation.
My shit avalanche started with an
unwelcome spritz of Kitty Kat’s Purrfect. Kitty Kat, the bubblegum pop singing
phenom, might know a thing or two about writing hit songs, but she doesn’t know
a thing about the delicate art of blending scents to create an intoxicating
perfume.
How could a spritz of perfume cause
a disaster?
I will start at the awful beginning,
but only because I hope my tragic story will serve as a cautionary tale. The
Titanic. James Cameron.
Christian Lacroix. Stéphanie Moreau.
The world has suffered enough disasters. Read and learn, mon amie.
AUTHOR BIO:
Leah Marie Brown has worked as a journalist and photographer. An avid
traveler, she has had adventures and mishaps from Paris to Tokyo. She doesn't
buy cheesy tee-shirts or useless bric-a-brac, but prefers friendships and
memories as souvenirs from her travels. She lives a bike ride away from the
white sand beaches of Florida’s Emerald Coast with her husband, children, and
pampered poodles. She is hard at work on the next novel in The It Girls series,
but loves to hear from readers. Please visit her website at www.leahmariebrown.com Follow Vivia on Twitter @Chic_Traveler and Pinterest as
Vivia Perpetual Grant, Perpetual Virgin.