Two years ago, when Ivy Emerson bailed from the tiny fishing village she’d grown up in to go to Columbia, Sawyer McCallister was the only thing she was sad to leave behind, and she still didn’t look back. But when her mother guilts her into coming home for Christmas, she crashes headfirst into Sawyer, who’s also returned after being away.
Now that they’ve both been dragged back to Saltwater, Maine, they might just realize it’s where they belong. Together.
EXCERPT -
I looked
over the garage at the now rusted backboard. It seemed like only yesterday that
Andrew stood on the ladder, wearing his new Bulls jersey, forcing me to stand
in the driveway to make sure he got it centered over the garage. The backboard
was still crooked, just like it always was since I didn't have a keen eye for
getting it level. But Andrew didn't move it. He said he loved it just the way
it was because it was my version of straight and he loved me.
Love.
That was a word I hadn't heard in a long time. I had a brief string of bad
dates in college and my mom always tried to set me up on dates with her
friends’ or co-workers’ sons, but none of them worked out. None of them had
that spark. That thing that made my stomach do somersaults.
I stepped
out of the car, shaking the thoughts of my past life out of my head while my
heels dug into the freshly fallen snow. I cursed myself for not putting on some
sort of winter footwear. It was a holiday after all, so the client couldn't
have complained about my footwear when he was the one inconveniencing me.
I walked
up the small path way, now lined with broken solar powered lights, to the big
white door. Quickly, I swiped my broker card in the realtor lock box. The green
light blinked and I pushed open the door.
There
hadn't been more than a handful of showings in the year the house had been
listed, but I never once showed it. I was always afraid to come back. Afraid it
would have the same feeling as it had now. Like I was coming home.
I'd spent
more time in the now faded foyer, underneath the broken chandelier, than I did
in my parents’ house. There were prom pictures taken on the grand staircase and
nights I spent cuddled with Andrew on the living room couch across from the now
dilapidated fireplace.
Mrs.
Lawson used to keep the house so nice. She always had candles burning and every
single light fixture would shine. The owners after the Lawsons obviously didn't
have as much pride in their home. It didn't take long for the bank to foreclose
on it and for my real estate company to get tapped to re-sell it. I almost
wished I could buy it myself, fix it up and restore it back to its former
glory. But I had neither the money nor the time for such things. My life had
become my work and without a family of my own there was really no need for the
grand four-bedroom house.
A soft
knock came at the front door.
"That
must be the client. He'd better put in an offer," I muttered, smoothing
out my skirt and walking to the front door.
"Hello,
I'm —"
I
stopped, my mouth still wide open, because standing in the doorway was one of
the former residents of the house, Andrew Lawson.
CHELSEA
M. CAMERON’S AUTHOR LINKS:
BUY LINKS -
Etta Davis didn't have showing a house penciled into her Christmas plans, but with the other realtors already off enjoying their holiday, she'd been stuck with the task. It wasn't all bad though, the house up for grabs used to belong to the family of her high school sweetheart, Andrew Lawson. Though now dilapidated, thanks to its current owners, it still held the power to bring back forgotten memories and turn the routine showing into something else entirely.
Particularly when Andrew shows up, wanting to buy the house. Now Etta must decide whether a second chance is worth taking the house, and her heart, off the market.
EXCERPT -
I looked
over the garage at the now rusted backboard. It seemed like only yesterday that
Andrew stood on the ladder, wearing his new Bulls jersey, forcing me to stand
in the driveway to make sure he got it centered over the garage. The backboard
was still crooked, just like it always was since I didn't have a keen eye for
getting it level. But Andrew didn't move it. He said he loved it just the way
it was because it was my version of straight and he loved me.
Love.
That was a word I hadn't heard in a long time. I had a brief string of bad
dates in college and my mom always tried to set me up on dates with her
friends’ or co-workers’ sons, but none of them worked out. None of them had
that spark. That thing that made my stomach do somersaults.
I stepped
out of the car, shaking the thoughts of my past life out of my head while my
heels dug into the freshly fallen snow. I cursed myself for not putting on some
sort of winter footwear. It was a holiday after all, so the client couldn't
have complained about my footwear when he was the one inconveniencing me.
I walked
up the small path way, now lined with broken solar powered lights, to the big
white door. Quickly, I swiped my broker card in the realtor lock box. The green
light blinked and I pushed open the door.
There
hadn't been more than a handful of showings in the year the house had been
listed, but I never once showed it. I was always afraid to come back. Afraid it
would have the same feeling as it had now. Like I was coming home.
I'd spent
more time in the now faded foyer, underneath the broken chandelier, than I did
in my parents’ house. There were prom pictures taken on the grand staircase and
nights I spent cuddled with Andrew on the living room couch across from the now
dilapidated fireplace.
Mrs.
Lawson used to keep the house so nice. She always had candles burning and every
single light fixture would shine. The owners after the Lawsons obviously didn't
have as much pride in their home. It didn't take long for the bank to foreclose
on it and for my real estate company to get tapped to re-sell it. I almost
wished I could buy it myself, fix it up and restore it back to its former
glory. But I had neither the money nor the time for such things. My life had
become my work and without a family of my own there was really no need for the
grand four-bedroom house.
A soft
knock came at the front door.
"That
must be the client. He'd better put in an offer," I muttered, smoothing
out my skirt and walking to the front door.
"Hello,
I'm —"
I
stopped, my mouth still wide open, because standing in the doorway was one of
the former residents of the house, Andrew Lawson.
MAGAN VERNON’S AUTHOR LINKS:
BUY LINKS -
GIVEAWAY -
Chelsea M. Cameron and Magan Vernon are
teaming up to give away a $10 Gift Card, a tub of Redvines and 10 signed
postcards from the cover models of Off the Market.
