Allie Pleiter - Bluegrass Blessings

It was becoming a struggle to remain civil about being roused out of bed by a flame-haired, loud-mouthed tornado in the middle of the night. “Not according to my paperwork. And believe me, Miss Hopkins, I read my paperwork.”

“Well, if I can’t open my bakery, I can’t earn money. And if I can’t earn money, then I can’t pay my rent. So, unless you want to start off the year badly, I reckon it is your problem.”

The Southern phraseology in her East Coast accent was just absurd. He glared at her. “Exactly what part of New Jersey are you from?”

That stopped her. “Exactly how much do you know about me?”

Exactly too much. And none of it prepared him for this. “I’m going back to bed now.”

“By all means. I won’t need any supervision from you. I’ll just slip in and slip out, moving batches in and out of your oven. You’ll never even know I’m there.”

Oh, he doubted that.

Enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, RITA ®Award finalist Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and nonfiction. An avid knitter and unreformed chocoholic, she spends her days writing books, drinking coffee and finding new ways to avoid housework. Allie grew up in Connecticut, holds a BS in Speech from Northwestern University, spent fifteen years in the field of professional fundraising. She lives with her husband, children and a Havanese dog named Bella in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois.

See, the former things have taken place,

and new things I declare; before they

spring into being I announce them to you.

—Isaiah 42:9

For Jeff

And he knows why

Every author needs the right ingredients to cook up the perfect novel. Attorney Donna Craft Cain helped me get the legal details in order, while Dr. Caroline Wolfe made sure the medical facts were in correct. If I could send Cookiegrams of my own, they’d go out to my husband, children, editor Krista Stroever and agent Karen Solem for their ongoing support. I’m well aware that living with an author—professionally or personally—is no piece of cake. Especially this author. And lastly, I’d be nowhere without the astounding guidance of my Lord and the amazing support of the readers who’ve made Middleburg one of their favorite places to visit. You’re great blessings, one and all.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Discussion Questions

“You can’t do this.” Dinah Hopkins glared mercilessly at the oven knobs. “I own you. You work for me and insubordination of any kind will not be permitted. Capiche?”

Her New York mobster impersonation failed to impress, for the pilot light still stared at her with one blue, unblinking eye. For lack of a better solution, she whacked the side of the cold oven with her rolling pin. Whacked. That was a gangster term, right?

“Whacked, as in end of life. As in light this minute or it’s the end of my life, buster.” Dinah fiddled with another knob or two, which had worked last week to get the fickle thing started, and checked the gas connection. “All’s well, you iron beast, you’ve got gas and flame but what I need is heat. So heat. I can’t exactly run a bakery with a microwave. Bakeries have ovens. Nice, obedient, toasty ovens.”

The blue unblinking eye mocked her. Okay, let’s try a little tenderness. “C’mon, baby, you know you want to. It’s a brand new year. You see that dough over there just begging to be sticky buns? You can do that. You’re the one who makes it happen. Let’s get cooking.” Dinah stroked the side of one burner as if she really could tickle an oven under the chin. She straightened up, blew a lock of her bright red hair out of her eyes, and listened to the hideous silence. No ticking sound, no heating metal, no hot oven.

No response. “I’m your master and I said ‘heat!’”

“Don’t you mean mistress?”

Dinah jumped at the unexpected male voice, spinning around ready to wield her rolling pin upon the intruder. The thing was large enough to be a weapon, that’s for sure. She dropped it on her toe once and limped for a week. She pointed it now at the dark stranger standing in her doorway. For a misguided robber dumb enough to enter a business with the lights on at two in the morning, he sure looked calm. And he was barefoot. And what was with the T-shirt and sweatpants? Didn’t criminals wear black cat-suits? “Who are you and how did you get in here?”

The man yawned. “Could you put that thing down?” He reached into one pocket.

“Not a chance, buster.” Dinah waved the rolling pin around to let him know just how serious she was about breaking a rib or two with it. She lunged for his hand just as he…pulled his glasses out of his pocket and held them out.

“Glasses,” he said, fixing the expensive-looking tortoise shell frames onto his face. “Not firearms.” Now he looked even less like a criminal. More like an accountant home sick with the flu.

“You’ve got ten seconds to tell me who you are.” Dinah hoped that even in flip-flops, she could outrun him to the police station if he tried anything. Especially after she threw the rolling pin to bruise his trespassing little shins.

He scratched his stubbly chin. He had thick, dark hair. “Do you realize what time it is?”

“Time for you to get out of my bakery before I call the police. I’m sure they know what time it is.”

“Sandy said you opened the bakery at six, maybe started baking at four. That was bad enough, but it’s two. That’s just not acceptable, no matter what you may have done in the past, so let’s get that out on the table right now.”

Sandy Burnside owned the building next door and hers as well. Oh no. Dinah put down the rolling pin and groaned. Sandy evidently did have a new tenant. A trespassing boor who decided it was okay to order perfect strangers around. “You’re Sandy’s new tenant? How’d you get in here?”

“Can I reach in my pocket again without the risk of pummeling?” The man did so and drew out a key. That still didn’t explain anything. “I thought I heard something strange going on.”

“My coming to work is strange?” Great. Not another one of those “the world is my territory and I must save the day” types. Dinah Hopkins was no damsel in distress and she surely didn’t take to being treated like one in her own kitchen.

He yawned. “Someone assaulting an appliance in clown clothes at two in the morning is not strange?”

Dinah felt a surge of regret for the purple tank top and red striped pajama pants she currently wore. She always came down from her apartment upstairs—she had a direct stairway in the back—to start the ovens and put the first batch of buns in while she was still in her pajamas. “Some stranger sneaking into my bakery at two in the morning is strange enough. Once more, for the record, who are you?”

“Cameron Rollings. Your new neighbor. I moved in above Mr. MacCarthy’s office next door.”

“I can’t say I care for your version of neighborliness, Mr. Rollings. And do you want to tell me why Sandy chose to hand over my bakery keys to a total stranger?”