Stormy Nights Reviewing & Bloggin': It Was All the Pie's Fault by Elizabeth SaFleur

It Was All The Pie’s Fault

By Elizabeth SaFleur

Book #1 in the Meet Cute Series

A fake relationship, opposites attract, laugh out loud sexy romantic comedy

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Blurb:

Chloe believes in two things: Russell is her soulmate and her pies are wishing magic. One bite of her cherry pie and he’ll declare her “the one.”

Jaded attorney Nick doesn't believe in magic OR Russell's intentions with Chloe. Pies making wishes come true? Pffft.

But she's perfect for him—as a fake girlfriend to appease his family-friendly boss. She's in love with someone else, after all. And he doesn’t do love, especially not with someone so bubbly, so dewy-eyed, so … committed to marching down a wedding aisle.

Plus this girl needs help when it comes to men--a lot of it. He'll help her lure Russell into dreaded wedded bliss, so long as she'll pose as his date.

Except Chloe's wishes begin to go haywire—starting with granting Nick's and turning all those fake kisses into smoking hot moments of passion.

It turns out Chloe’s not as innocent as he first thought.

~“Just a taste” Excerpt~

Chloe was late as hell. Thanks to a sleepless night, she’d gotten a late start to Peppermint Sweet. Greta and Scarlett must be wondering where the heck their Saturday morning pies were.

She balanced the three pie boxes in her arms and shut her car door with her foot. Thunderclouds rumbled overhead. She’d have to run.

Pounding on pie pastry last night had turned out to be a good way to get out frustrations. Frustrations about things like how Dolores at the front desk had spilled some gossip about Russell and Suzette Marie, about how Russell was trying to go to France with Suzette Marie on her student school trip. Never mind he hated flying and taught American history for God’s sake.

Chloe jogged around the corner, her purse strap barely staying on her shoulder, and slammed into a wall. A cry flew out of her throat as she stumbled backward. A powerful set of arms caught her before she landed on her butt.

White shirt, blue suit. She looked up. It was Nick.

“Whoa, it’s the pie queen.” He smiled down at her.

Bright purple stains spread over his wide chest.

“Oh, no.” The three paper boxes holding the pies had flattened between them.

He reached down and scooped up some of the pie half-hanging off the edge of the box. He brought it to his lips. “Mmmm. You really are a talented baker.”

“You just ate pie off your shirt.” She stepped back again and let the top box fall to the ground. She managed to keep the other two boxes—totally mashed—in her arms.

He sucked on the end of his thumb. “Five-second rule. Pie’s still good.” He then reached down to the ground and broke off a larger piece from inside the box.

“What are you doing? That is on the ground.”

The Neanderthal rose and pointed a finger at her. “Technically, it was still in the box.” He shoved a sizeable piece in his mouth. His eyes rolled back and his head dropped back. “Mmm. A-mazing.”

“You. Are. A. Savage.”

His eyes sparkled. “I’ve been called worse.” If pride had a physical form, it was now rolling off him in waves.

Chloe wasn’t a violent person. No, indeed. But right now, punching one smug attorney with blueberry stains on his shirt—and now his teeth—would feel sooo good. “I was trying to sell those, you know.”

He shrugged and reached into his back pocket with his blueberry-stained fingers. “How much? I’ll take all three.”

She stepped backward and clutched her two remaining, totally smushed pie boxes. “You will not.”

A woman with her hand hooked into a man’s arm scooted by them. Their faces said everything: “Let’s leave the crazy people be.”

“So, they’re not for sale?” Nick shook his head. “Look. My fault. I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

There was nothing right about any of this. But he had eaten it, so she could wish him away, right?

Nana had specifically marked the blueberry-lavender pie as “for emergencies only.” It basically made everything right again. Blueberries symbolized protection, and lavender represented purity, grace, and calmness. Her life was most definitely in an emergency. First, Russell making moon eyes at Suzette Marie, and now, this guy constantly showing up?

She reached down and picked a small piece up and stuck it in her mouth. She glared at him as she mantra-ed her way to Nick Hollister freedom.

I wish for you to find true love.

I wish for you to find the woman of your dreams.

I wish for you to go off and spend allll your time with that poor wretched woman.

There. She even remembered to make it a positive set of wishes, one of Nana’s golden rules.

I wish for you to leave this town and make your dreams come true.

He chuckled. “See? Still good.”

Then he drew closer. Everything about him was big—too big, like the Hulk about to smash her plans. He had that wicked glint in his eye she didn’t trust—like he was going for more of her pie.

“What did I eat? It was fantastic.”

She tried to scoot by him. “Blueberry-lavender.”

He grasped her arm. “Let me guess. It’s magic.”

She spun back to him and stepped closer. “Go on. Make fun all you want. It matters not to me.”

The man had the gall to smirk down at her. “Chloe, let’s go inside. Talk about my proposition.”

Could the guy not take a hint? “With you? No.” She tossed her chin upward to make her point. “I’d rather go out with a German shepherd than you.” At least dogs were loyal.

“I get that. But would you like to hear what would work with Russell?”

“I know what will work.” She had to get Russell to eat her frackin’ pie—and not off the ground.

“No, you don’t.” He inclined his head toward Peppermint Sweet. “It’s just coffee. Or tea, if you prefer. If you want to know what will work with Russell, you’ll hear me out.”

He took the two ruined pie boxes from her, and somehow, she found herself sitting inside Peppermint Sweet—only with the wrong guy.

Author bio:

Elizabeth SaFleur writes award-winning, luscious romance from 28 wildlife-filled acres, which she shares with her husband and one very spoiled Westie. (He’s the real Dom in the family.) When not immersed in books she can be found dancing or drinking good Virginia wine—not necessarily in that order.

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