Spotlight: Challenging the Chef by Shanna Hatfield

Publication date: October 19th 2023

Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance, Western

Synopsis:

When an interloper arrives in his kitchen, will romance start to simmer?

Chef Owen Thorpe left behind his celebrity status when he moved to Summer Creek. The quaint town and country atmosphere allow him to seek solace in his recipes. His peace and quiet is threatened when he’s coerced into being part of a big auction package that includes the winner spending a week cooking with him in his restaurant. The last thing he wants is some chef wannabe in his way. However, the real danger he faces is losing his heart when the winner turns out to be a beautiful woman who knows her way around a kitchen.

Burdened by the weight of her demanding career as a school psychologist, Tawni Young turns to cooking and gardening to escape from the never-ending stress of her work. When her aunt gifts her an auction package that includes cooking lessons in the small town of Summer Creek, Tawni realizes the chef she’ll be working with is none other than a celebrity she had a huge crush on during her college years. From the moment the two of them meet, an undeniable attraction sizzles while wits collide.

As they embark on a tantalizing journey of culinary delights, will Tawni and Owen discover the most important ingredient is love?

In this heartwarming and deliciously wholesome tale, Challenging the Chef takes readers on a savory adventure filled with sweet romance.

Read the entire Summer Creek Series!

Catching the Cowboy

Rescuing the Rancher

Protecting the Princess

Distracting the Deputy

Guiding the Grouch

Challenging the Chef

Excerpt

He could do this. Play nice and dig deep to dredge up the charm that used to come to him so easily. He’d unearthed it anytime a food critic or reporter came to town interested in reviewing the restaurant. If he thought of the woman as someone he needed to impress, like a critic, then maybe it would be easier to get through the next few days.

What were four measly days in the grand scheme of things, anyway?

Just nearly a hundred hours of misery. Pure misery.

Nothing to worry about, he thought derisively.

Scoffing, he removed the sauce from the heat and set it aside. Owen glanced at the clock. Time was growing short before Miss Young arrived. If he hurried, he could whip up the sour cream lemon blueberry Bundt cakes he planned to offer for dessert that evening. He’d already made strawberry pudding that would be served with shortbread squares and fresh whipped cream topped with candied lime peel.

Determined to have the cakes baking before Miss Young messed up his afternoon, he rushed to mix the ingredients and was just sliding the last cake pan into the oven when he heard Mayor Mitchell Kane speaking to someone as they entered through the back door.

Owen really needed to get a keypad lock back there one of these days. Grumbles drifted under his breath as he set the timer for the cakes, quickly washed his hands, and turned with a towel in his wet hands to greet the interloper who was about to completely upset his schedule for the next four days.

Despite what Nate had mentioned about her not being too hard on the eyes, Owen wasn’t prepared for the woman who stepped into the kitchen with Mitch. His hands stilled, clenching the towel as he took in her appearance.

Dark brown hair flowed over her shoulders in thick, chunky waves. Apple cheeks tinged with pink, lips that appeared entirely too kissable, and the slightest smattering of freckles on her nose gave her a girl-next-door vibe. Pretty brown eyes sparkled like fizzy root beer but looked intelligent and interested when their gazes connected.

The mayor helped her remove her coat, and Owen’s mouth went dry at the sight of her curvaceous figure. He sucked in a breath and inhaled a delightful floral fragrance that tantalized his nose.

What was he supposed to do with this beautiful being when he’d been expecting a middle-aged foodie with money as expandable as her waistline?

This was even worse than he’d envisioned. He had no time for distractions like Tawni Young, who certainly lived up to her name. She looked young. Fresh-faced. Yet the name Tawni made him think of a jungle cat and something that held a great deal of danger.

If the attraction he felt to her was any indication, she was going to be nothing but trouble to him.

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About the Author

USA Today Bestselling Author Shanna Hatfield writes sweet romances rich with relatable characters, small town settings that feel like home, humor, and hope.

Her historical westerns have been described as “reminiscent of the era captured by Bonanza and The Virginian” while her contemporary works have been called “laugh-out-loud funny, and a little heart-pumping sexy without being explicit in any way.”

When this farm girl isn’t writing or indulging in rich, decadent chocolate, Shanna hangs out with her husband, lovingly known as Captain Cavedweller. She also experiments with recipes, snaps photos of her adorable nephew, and caters to the whims of a cranky cat named Drooley.

To learn more about Shanna or the books she writes, visit her website http://shannahatfield.com or find out more about her here: linktr.ee/ShannaHatfield

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Spotlight: A Hallowed Date by J.C. Valentine

(A Coffee Break Mystery, #3)

Publication date: October 18th 2023

Genres: Adult, Mystery, Romance

Synopsis:

Ava is head over heels for her brooding neighbor Ryan, but he barely knows she exists. When he finally pays attention just in time for Halloween, her favorite holiday, Ava is determined to win him over with her bubbly personality and holiday cheer.

But amidst blossoming romance, a mystery unfolds when Ava’s intricately carved pumpkins begin to vanish from her porch overnight. Enlisting Ryan’s help, Ava tries to catch the culprit behind the pumpkin disappearances and solve the spooky whodunit.

As they draw closer to unmasking the pumpkin bandit, Ava wonders if Ryan will ever see her as more than just a friend. Can All Hallow’s Eve cast a spell to turn their friendship into true love? Or will Ava’s heart be left hollow when the case is closed?

This delightfully spooky romantic comedy blends quirky mystery with the magic of the Halloween season.

Excerpt

The sound of footsteps had me glancing up to see Ryan shuffling up the walkway toward me, looking only slightly bleary-eyed. His dark hair was endearingly mussed from sleep.

“Good morning, sunshine,” I said brightly, puzzled as to why he was gracing me with his presence. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this fine morning?” It wasn’t typical for us to converse most days, aside from a passing nod or hello. This was...unexpected.

“I think I had too much of your magic brew last night,” he said, coming to sit in the vacant seat beside me, only a small wedge of an attached table standing between us.

Ah, he was suffering a hangover. "Coffee?" I offered, feeling suddenly shy and somewhat sorry for overserving him. But at least we were talking. It was definitely a step in the right direction.

Ryan gave me a lopsided grin. "You read my mind. I saw you sitting out here and figured I’d see if you’d pity me enough to offer a cup.”

“I’m surprised you even left the house. Why didn’t you make your own pot?”

He grimaced. “Tried. Would you believe I tripped over my own feet and broke it?”

I covered a snicker with my hand. “Well, looks like your day isn’t starting off on the best foot, no pun intended. I’ll go fix you a cup. Black or with sugar?”

“Two sugars and a splash of milk. You’re an angel,” he added, blinking up at me adoringly.

I laughed outright this time and shook my head, then headed inside to retrieve his drink. Ryan’s morning might have been a monster, but mine was turning out pretty great so far.

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About the Author

J.C. Valentine is the USA Today and International bestselling author of the Night Calls and Wayward Fighters Series and the Forbidden Trilogy. Her vivid imagination and love of words and romance had her penning her own romance stories from an early age, which, despite being poorly edited and written longhand, she forced friends and family members to read. No, she isn't sorry. 

Living in the Northwest, she has three amazing children and far too many pets. Among the many hats she wears, J.C. is an entrepreneur. Having graduated with honors, she holds a Bachelor's in English and when she isn't writing, you can find her editing for fellow authors. 

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Spotlight: Forgot to Say Goodbye by S.L. Scott

Release Date: October 19

Noah Westcott should come with a warning: Too Hot to Handle!

The man is stunningly handsome with his embracing brown eyes and lips that make me want to kiss that smirk right off his face.

How could I resist?

Spoiler: I didn’t.

That was my first mistake.

I blame him for the second. It should have been easy and fun. No strings attached. No feelings. As if he commanded it like he did me in the bedroom, I did exactly what I said I wouldn’t. I fell for him.

Two years later, the same man walks into my life. Again. A lot has changed. Not his devastating good looks, or that smug grin, but for me everything.

Now that Noah’s back—in my office and hanging around after hours—I can’t get distracted. I must protect my secret—the one who calls me Mommy.

Excerpt

As soon as I walk in, I’m struck with glaring hazel eyes and pursed red lips. She sits forward in my chair, resting her elbows on my desk. “Did you really think you’d waltz into this company like nothing happened between us?”

“I didn’t waltz, sweetheart. I was recruited. Let me break that down for you. That means—”

“I know what it means.” She stands, her fingertips whitening from the pressure against the desktop. “I don’t need you to explain anything to me.” Coming around, she adds, “Here’s what’s going to happen. Tomorrow, you’re going to quit.”

“Quit?” I struggle to keep my eyes from bugging out. She won’t get the best of me . . . like she once did. I approach the desk, and volley right back, “You’ve got a lot of nerve to tell me how this is going to play out.”

“It took more than nerves to make it to where I am in this company.” She comes around and pats me on the chest. “Sweetheart.” 

I catch her hand before it slides away. She double steps back, which brings us face-to-face. “I’m not quitting to make you more comfortable. If you remember—”

“Oh, I remember.” She holds my gaze with her glare. “I remember everything despite spending two years trying to forget that night altogether.”

Forget that night? Why the fuck does she even care when she was the one who walked away? “So let me get this straight. You sneak out in the middle of the night, but somehow, I’m the bad guy? That’s rich, Olivia.” 

Her eyes dip to the bond between us before she yanks her hand away. She also makes sure to get a last dig in by poking me in the chest. “Say my name while you can, but make sure it’s on the way out the door.” Her fake smile falls as fast as her face did when she saw me in the conference room. 

How the fuck did this turn into a war in the office?

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Meet S.L. Scott:

New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author, S.L. Scott, writes character driven, heart-racing suspense, and swoony romances that will have you reading past bedtime. With stories ranging from witty beach reads to heart wrenching and heart healing, her stories are highly regarded as emotional, relatable, and captivating. Her books are more than escapes for the voracious readers of today. They are journeys of the heart that always come with a happily ever after reward at the end.

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Spotlight: Murder Uncorked by Maddie Day

As the manager of Vino y Vida Wine Bar in Colinas, Cecelia “Cece” Barton’s first Alexander Valley harvest is a whirlwind of activity. Her twin sister, Allie Halstead, who owns a nearby Victorian bed & breakfast, is accustomed to the hustle and bustle of peak tourist season. But Cece barely has a moment to enjoy her new home in between worrying about her estranged college-age daughter, juggling her responsibilities at the bar, and navigating the sticky politics of the local wine association. Just when it seems things can’t grow any more intense, Colinas is rocked by a murder within the wine community . . . and Cece is identified as a possible suspect!

With her reputation and her livelihood on the line—and the Sonoma County deputy sheriff breathing down her neck—Cece has no choice but to open up her own murder investigation. Tensions are already high in the valley, as a massive wildfire creeps toward Colinas, threatening homes, vineyards, and the vital tourist trade. And now, with a murderer on the loose, and Cece’s sleuthing exposing the valley’s bitterest old rivalries and secret new alliances, Colinas feels ready to pop! But with Allie’s help, Cece is determined to catch the killer and clear her name before everything she’s worked so hard for goes up in flames . . .

Excerpt

The air sizzled in Vino y Vida. The conversation between two men standing and sipping wine had turned as heated as the thermometer outside, which was on its way to pegging ninety.

Early October here in California’s Alexander Valley, one of the state’s best wine-producing regions, meant grape harvest season. And the harvest brought the start of high tourist season. The two guys in the win bar I managed weren’t my only customer at four in the afternoon, but one of the pair had become confrontational, and I didn’t like it.

I’d started this job in the spring when life was quieter, when Colinas seemed a mostly sleepy community once the winter wine tourism had ebbed. The town sat only ninety minutes north of San Franciso and was an easy drive to the several dozen renowned wineries here as well as the more famous ones in Napa Valley. Today the vibe in the wine bar was busy, boisterous, and now belligerent.

“Listen, bro.” The argumentative dude bit off his words, and his puffy face was flushed under sandy hair with a reddish tinge. He wore a maroon polo shirt emblazoned with the logo of VVA, the regional business group for vineyard owners.

“I’m not your bro,” the other man pushed back.

Angry pounded the bar with his fist. “You have no right to demand those numbers.” The color in his florid face deepened and his light eyes glared.

I glanced around the room. So far these two didn’t seem to be disturbing other customers enjoying their glass of wine.

“You know very well the board asked me to check into all aspects of the Vinyard Valley Association.” The other man stayed calm. “And you aren’t delivering the information I’ve asked for.” Silver streaked the temples of a full head of dark hair.

Hmm. I could get used to that look, along with Handsome’s soft voice and trim physique. If I was in the market for a man. Which I wasn’t. I was straight and single- or rather, widowed, and had been for ten years- but I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I cleared my throat. Neither of their glasses held more than a trace of wine.

“A second pour, gentlemen?” I held up the bottle of the Seghesio Sangiovese they’d requested for their first glass.

“I could use one, sweetheart.” Angry extended his stemmed glass. “But give me the Zin.”

I ignored the “sweetheart” and the omission of “please” and selected an open bottle of zinfandel from the same vineyard, pouring slightly less than the usual fill. “You, sir?” I raised my eyebrows and pointed to the other man’s glass.

“Not for me, thank you, Cece.” Handsome smiled, pronouncing the name he’d read off my name as “Cease,” not “Ceecee,” as I’ve always been known. “My name’s Benjamin Cohen, by the way.”

“Nice to mee you, Benjamin. I’m Cece Barton, manager and chief wine dispenser.”

“You know who I am, right Cece?” the other man asked. “The same Vincent Sardo you’ve been corresponding with about the VVA event.” He winked at me, his anger with his drinking partner disappearing for the moment.

Oh. Sardo worked for the VVA, organizing publicity events and bringing the members together, according to his job description. Whoever hired him must not have experienced his abrasive side. I had, but not in person until right now.

“But you can call me Vinnie,” he went on. “We’ve had a few back and forths, you and me, you know, over the email and phone, and you’ve been refusing to cooperate. But I didn’t realize what a babe you were.” His smile was borderline leer, but the upper lip catching on an eyetooth spoiled the look.

Eww. I might be moderately attractive at forty-two, but a babe I was not. I was reasonably fit, and at five foot eight I didn’t struggle with my weight. My nonidentical twin always said my gray-green eyes were a big asset, and having thick, honey-colored hair was one, too. But I tended to dress comfortably, and I wore flat shoes and didn’t go nuts with makeup. Definitely not “babe” material.

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About the Author

Maddie Day is the Agatha Award-winning author of the Cozy Capers Book Club Mysteries, the Country Store Mysteries, the CeCe Barton Mysteries, and the Local Foods Mysteries, as well as other series and short crime fiction written under the name Edith Maxwell. A member of Mystery Writers of America and a proud lifetime member of Sisters in Crime, she is a regular contributor at Mystery Lovers' Kitchen and belongs to the Wicked Authors, a group of bestselling authors who blog at WickedAuthors.com. Day lives with her beau and their cat Martin north of Boston, although she knows Indiana, California, and Cape Cod intimately. She is a wine enthusiast, talented amateur chef, and former farmer and can be found online at MaddieDayAuthor.com

Spotlight: Time to Write by Emily Winslow

Have you always wanted to write a novel?

Emily Winslow will help you develop the mindset and skills to get you started, keep you going, and see you through. Time to Write is a creative writing guide aimed at anyone who wants to write a novel and could use some support.

It contains 49 lessons, each easy to read and packed with insights based on experience. Emily has taken her own work to high levels with major publishers, and has learned from teaching at Cambridge University what makes students light up and what makes their work drastically, excitingly improve.

This book is full of encouragement, recognizing and affirming different work styles. It's a total handbook, teaching a broad range of specific writing skills with insight and clarity as well as covering topics around writing in-depth, such as how to give and take critique and how to evaluate publishers and agents.

It's time to write the stories inside you!

Print length: 275 pages

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About the Author

Emily Winslow is the author of a series of crime novels and a memoir. Her books have been published by Random House, HarperCollins, Allison & Busby, and Shanghai Translation Publishing House.

Her novels (The Whole World, The Start of Everything, The Red House, and Look For Her) have been called “brilliant” (The Washington Post), “vivid” (Parade magazine) and “dazzling” (Shelf Awareness). Her memoir, Jane Doe January, is “meticulously constructed and ultimately terrifying” (The New York Times), “potent” (Kirkus), and “compelling” (Bustle).

She grew up in the U.S. and now lives in Cambridge, England teaching for the University of Cambridge and for Cambridge Creative Writing Company.

Find Emily online: www.EmilyWinslow.com

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Spotlight: The Devil Comes to Bonn by Jennifer Harris

A novel about moral ambiguity that reflects the #MeToo movement

2015. Stella, a professor and historian, comes to the beautiful and ancient city of Bonn, Germany, for a World Heritage conference. With things at home tearing at the seams, she is determined to pretend all is well. At least, until she is assaulted over a trivial matter by another delegate, Professor Giovanni Costa. Bewildered, Stella descends into a shadowy observer, slowly becoming an obsessed stalker. When she meets the elderly Hildegard on a park bench by the River Rhine she is drawn into her wartime story, little seeing the similarities to her own situation.

1941. Hildegard, new wife to Kurt and student of architecture, surrenders to the inevitable; she needs a job for them to pay their rent. Interviewing for a hotel post, she does not realise her life now is off course, running on a track destined to collide with the sinister Fuhrer himself. Although repulsed, she must play along with the Fatherland ideals—to show anything but enthusiasm would not only leave her without a job but probably worse circumstances. She is thrust into the role of maid to Hitler in the infamous room 106 in a hotel he visited more than 70 times. She is no longer able to hide away from reality in her studies. Moving forward is the only option, no matter how dark it gets.

With the story switching between 2015 and 1941, Stella and Hildegard face questions of survival, identity, love and meaning as they juggle moral ambiguities in a world of elusive justice.

Excerpt

And then there it was. Moonlight Sonata. Stella bent over the glass case which protected the brittle manuscript bearing the beloved 1801 piano music. Quick, slightly slanted bar lines segmented the staves, with quavers and crotchets reduced to hurried dots with tapered tails. Some pages were covered in lacy tracks, a light pressure of composition coming without effort, the romantic ideal of a glorious outpouring of spirit. She had listened to the sonata in countless sad and happy times, and here was its genesis.

A voice behind. ‘What a lovely surprise to see you, my dear.’

Stella jumped. Takura? She was not sure in the conservation-darkness of the museum, but then she saw Hildegard by his side, smiling in pink lipstick.

Hildegard circled the man’s waist with her thin arm. ‘Neo, I introduce Dr Robinson—Stella—my new friend and a visitor to my Bonn.’

Hildegard beamed. ‘Neo is my son.’

Neo clasped Stella’s hand. She hid her bewilderment at the family relationship between the small, white, German woman in her green summer dress with patch pockets, and the towering, black African man in elegant dark trousers and a business shirt. In his fifties, perhaps. Stella knew a lot about Hildegard’s life, but not all; she must have gone on living richly after the war, but her eyes revealed that today she had been weeping.

Eagerly, Hildegard took Stella’s hand. ‘Neo lives most of the time in Gaborone, but we are mother and son for many years.’

Stella tried to smooth her matted hair. ‘You’re a tourist today?’

Neo shook his head. ‘I’m a classical pianist. When I visit my mother, I always come to this house; it’s a touchstone for me.’

Hildegard guided Stella back to Moonlight Sonata and beckoned to Neo.

‘A moment to share, dear ones.’

Stella let her new friend show her a treasure of Bonn—what an honour to be included with Neo. Costa’s insults diminished; inspirational music trumped his bullying. The hand of Beethoven blazed across this paper more than two hundred years ago. The yellowed pages rested on tiny props, imminent with music, islands of calm amid the museum horde. This was where Stella belonged.

‘Such intoxicating sound from these squiggles and dots!’

‘But it’s more,’ said Hildegard. ‘The sonata is part of the soul of Germany.’

‘Even more, Mama,’ said Neo. His elegant fingers hovered towards the sonata in a caress. ‘Of the world!’ His fingers dashed through an arpeggio. ‘From the third movement.’

Stella blurted, ‘You’re from Africa’.

Bemused, Neo nodded. ‘Yeah, Botswana.’

Stella flushed hotly. Neo and Hildegard had not realised that she had made a simple statement; she had not asked a question. Of course, an African could be a classical pianist. She knew that; she had not meant to suggest otherwise, how mortifying. And, of course, Gaborone was in Africa. She knew that it was in Botswana and even wanted to go on safari there one day, but they didn’t know that. She looked red and sweaty and now she appeared ignorant of geography, another patronizing Westerner who knew nothing of Africa. She would rescue the situation, show them how much she knew and cared about the issues Neo must juggle.

‘You don’t worry about Western hegemony and an oppressive musical canon?’

‘What a mouthful!’ laughed Neo. ‘No, I don’t worry.’ He shook a fist at the manuscript. ‘What a lot of chaos wrought by a sheet of old paper!’

Hildegard covered her lower face, but Stella saw that she too laughed.

‘We Batswana take what we want and leave the rest,’ said Neo kindly. ‘No-one tells us what to do.’

Stella could not meet Neo’s eyes. There was no way to make this right. She had performed like one of those Westerners who were anxious to protect non-Westerners from the West itself, as if non-Western identities lay eternally in colonial tatters. She acted the fool; she knew it. The crush of the room, the shame of insulting Neo... She felt a wave of cold, then heat. She steadied herself on the edge of the cabinet.

‘Shall we?’ Hildegard pointed to the door.

Neo took her walking cane. She linked arms with him and Stella and walked gracefully between them through the international tourists to the back of the museum and into the bare room where Beethoven was born. Stella prayed that the awkward moment had passed. She grabbed the frame of the low door, ducked, and passed dizzily into the attic, with its scrubbed, wooden floor and small windows tucked under the narrow eaves, the shatteringly inauspicious birthplace of a genius.

Tourists dropped their voices. Stella hunched her shoulders, making herself small in the tight space. It was here that Beethoven first breathed, a little before Christmas in 1770, with ice clinging to the wavy, misting windowpanes and his parents still mourning the death of their first born. The new infant, Ludwig, was born into grief. So many identities criss-crossed in the impoverished space and somehow found a home as each place and time and culture and person discovered Beethoven’s music.

Tourists tried to separate themselves from others, each family group seeking to photograph itself in the lowly chamber as if it was occupied by a single family alone. Hot and cold waves accelerated across Stella’s head and body. Her bottled water was finished, and headache throbs converged behind her eyes.

Hildegard turned to Stella. Her eyes were penetrating and compassionate; how concerned she was to see her friend’s distress. Horrified by the misunderstanding with Neo, Stella pulled out her camera to give herself something to do. Hildegard probably thought her a racist. To steady herself, Stella copied the tourists who crammed into the bare room trying to photograph the interior, but it was impossible. Everywhere—floor, window, wall, door—sunburnt, twenty-first century tourists cooled themselves with museum brochures. The famous dark, furrowed brow and waves of romantic Beethoven hair flashed around the room as flapping pamphlets turned into fans.

Bonn was fixated on Beethoven, but the fate of Tzipi and Daniel was erased from daily memory. Stella panted in the claustrophobic birth chamber, sensing the children’s tragedy slipping into the casual violence of present-day Costa. Her body tingled, fiery then icy. Costa…she itched to slap him hard. Leave a bruise on his cheek. And then what dreadful consequences? An assault charge? Sacked from the university? She had always been self-disciplined, denying herself, forcing herself to do what she did not want to do. She had missed out on the joy of impulse her whole life. Creativity emerged from impulse, and she’d killed it. She was at war with herself. Stella blinked; Neo and Hildegard swayed. The short space across the plank floor to mother and son expanded and contracted. She wiped her eyes and tried to focus. They watched her, muttering. Their eyes met and travelled back to her.

Voices sighed, hummed, murmured in the tiny birth space under the old eaves. A foul sibilance sprayed. Saliva from every language spat, stripping out oxygen, coating the room in a repulsive slick. The walls glistened in a foul coating of hissed worship. The stifling birthplace shrank, reeking with sweat, as the walls tilted. Stella could scarcely see the wooden floor around her own feet. Through her lens, she tried to line up the tiny window with the dark grey bust on the garden plinth, but the image blurred, the window frame in sharp focus, and the bust, no more than a blotch. She grabbed the frame and shut her eyes.

Hildegard grasped Stella’s elbow and spoke muffled words. When Stella opened her eyes, Neo had appeared on her other side; tentatively, he touched her shoulder. She babbled an excuse— ‘hot, tired, conference’ —and teetered downstairs, knocking into visitors, blundering from step to step. Staircase too narrow. Walls swinging. Manuscripts jumbling.

Hildegard called, ‘Stel-lah! Stel-lah!’

But Stella did not look back from the door nor the scorching street beyond.

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About the Author

Photo credit: Joel B. Gilman

Jennifer Harris writes literary fiction inspired by the historic environment—not historical fiction, but fiction set in the contemporary era that responds to the past, remembered either publicly in monuments and memorials, or in subtle, private ways. Her PhD is in Cultural Heritage theory and she has lectured in and researched cultural heritage and museums for many years. She has also run a small museum, and worked as a journalist in Australia and London.

Jennifer is from Western Australia and has lived also in France and the UK. In 2020 she relocated to Seattle in the spectacular Pacific Northwest of the USA.

Connect: https://www.jenniferharriswriter.com/