Steeped in Love Read online

  Steeped In Love

  Julie Evelyn Joyce

  Steeped in Love

  Copyright © 2018 by Julie Evelyn Joyce Doner

  Cover design and E-book formatting by Margaret Ethridge

  Edits by Sarah Pesce of Lopt & Cropt editing services

  ISBN: 978-1-9994842-1-7

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its author.

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  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Created with Vellum

  Addie Mitchell is a pie-on-the-fly entrepreneur who’s finally ready to settle down in the big, empty house her late great-aunt Edna left to her. Frustrated with her lack of success in romance, Addie turns to another gift her great-aunt passed on to her—the art of reading tea leaves—to aid her in her search for the ideal mate.

  Novelist Ethan Holtz is having a hard time sinking his teeth into his next project, but he finds Addie fascinating. Mainly for her ability to make her dates disappear in fifteen minutes or less. He can’t help but eavesdrop on her dates in the local coffee shop, his writing haven, and soon finds himself taking pointers on what not to do from her failed suitors.

  Though her methods seem nothing short of mad, he falls fast and hard for the pixie-haired pie-pusher. She thinks they’re all wrong for each other, but Ethan teams up with the tea leaves to prove they’re so right.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Coming soon

  Untitled

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my beautiful mother. I started writing Steeped in Love a couple months before she passed away suddenly. It was meant to be a gift to her, and I’m still treating it as such. So, here you go, Mom. I hope it makes you proud.

  1

  Coffee creamed and stirred. Laptop fired up. Knuckles cracked.

  Ethan Holtz took a deep breath and waited for inspiration to strike.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  He swigged some coffee, hoping a sudden jolt of caffeine might awaken the creative juices.

  Nope. Though it was a particularly good cup of joe this morning. Not wanting to let the discovery go unappreciated, he raised his mug in salute to Gwen, the talented barista and shop owner. Someone around here should be appreciated for their work.

  She smiled as she whirled past him, her hands loaded with empty mugs and crumb-filled plates. Lord, he wanted a cherry danish. But not yet. Not until he cranked out the first thousand words.

  Ethan had been living in Kendal for months, but even he had to admit he hadn’t done much to make an impression. More an observer than participant, he knew who his neighbors were, but he didn’t feel the need to engage in meaningless chit-chat with them. Unless you counted Mrs. McCallister and her three grandchildren. They often crossed paths at the public swimming pool.

  Typical introvert, at least according to multiple Facebook quizzes, he liked his books and television shows and felt comfortable only in a few particular spots, like the Cup-A-Cabana coffee shop.

  He’d been writing there for several weeks now, hoping the change of scenery and the colorful mix of people he observed would help his writer’s block. Sure beat staring at the bland walls of the apartment he rented. But until recently, the writing wasn’t the problem. It was the fact that the books he worked so hard on weren’t selling. A demoralizing reality, but a reality nonetheless.

  He knew he was good. His psychological thrillers were deep and thought-provoking, not only according to him but to several critics. When Thrilled About Thrillers gave him a Top Pick, he was sure he’d made it. His agent had gushed on and on about the esteemed acknowledgement, yet somehow his critical acclaim hadn’t translated to commercial success.

  Lowering his gaze to the screen, the blank page glared back and the cursor taunted him.

  Oh, to hell with it.

  Ethan flagged down Gwen and ordered the damn danish. On her return with the pastry, she topped up his mug. He lifted his head to acknowledge the gesture, but an entirely different woman caught his eye outside the door. She was bent over, locking her bike to a lamppost, unmindful of every man who gawked at her obvious assets on display, including himself. When she righted herself again, recognition dawned.

  Adelaide Mitchell, owner and operator of the one and only Pie-Cycle.

  He couldn’t help but watch as she entered the café, a pixie-haired woman with wide brown eyes, pink lips, and short shorts that hugged her so tightly he felt envious of spandex.

  He rarely got to see Addie up close. Gwen called her that, and the short form suited her. They’d never properly met, but he’d noticed her. Even when she’d whiz by in a blur on her bike, oh, he’d notice her. The writer in him enjoyed the mystique about her, had fun contemplating her personality . . . among other things. She always appeared to be in such a hurry, selling her freshly baked hand pies at all the hubs in this town and the neighboring ones. He’d never tried one, being that he was partial to danishes. But a girl like Addie, well, she might tempt a guy to give pie a try.

  Did she make a living at it? His cooking skills ranked somewhere between novice and non-existent, and he’d never baked in his life, but people had to eat. No one needed to read, as disturbing as that seemed. Writing, he’d admit, was a pie-in-the-sky career choice, but hers was actually pie.

  Addie ordered at the counter, speaking animatedly to Gwen who gave an occasional nod while filling orders for other customers. He sat too far away to hear her chatting over the competing noise, but the kaleidoscope of emotions that played across her face kept him spellbound. If the pie thing didn’t work out, she could be a mime. Except something told him she’d never be able to hold her tongue.

  Addie took a seat a couple of tables over, her back to him. She pulled a tube of lipstick from her pocket and used an old bicycle side mirror from her bag to apply it. Her short hairstyle emphasized the long, slim column of her neck. Her aquamarine bike shoes slapped anxiously against the floor, like it pained her to sit still for too long. He glanced down to find his own foot tapping in sync with hers.

  Gwen delivered a steaming mug to Addie’s table. “Here’s your tea,” she said. “Good luck. Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  Well, that’s an odd thing to say. What’s she looking for? The meaning of life? The perfect ratio of honey to lemon in her tea—

  “How’s the writing going, Ethan?”

  He flinched, startled to find Gwen hovering over him with a knowing smile on her face. “Fine,” he muttered.

  Her soft hum proved she’d seen the blank page he failed to minimize fast enough. “Hope your hands don’t cramp up,” she teased, then sauntered back behind the counter to cash someone out.

  Ethan missed those days—when his fingers could barely keep pace with the words flowing from his brain.
It was hell to find inspiration when you knew what you were writing would tank before it even hit the shelves. Releasing a heavy sigh, he rubbed his temples. He could be bitter and cynical all he wanted, but the truth was that he needed to rebrand himself if he had a hope in Hades of selling anything. He’d still be a thriller author, but his stories were about to take on a different spin. According to his research, every successful book nowadays had “girl” in the title: Gone Girl, The Good Girl, The Girl on the Train, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo . . .

  He looked up, suddenly curious beyond all reason if Addie had any tattoos, another detail he could add to his mental rolodex. But something else stole his attention. She wasn’t sitting alone anymore.

  A man sat at her table. So that must have been what Gwen meant. This was a date. Addie Mitchell was looking for a man.

  Unwritten story forgotten, Ethan pushed his laptop toward the center of the table so he could lean forward. If he propped his elbow on the table and twisted just a little to the right, he had a much better position for eavesdropping.

  “I was so glad you contacted me,” the guy said.

  He was almost a full head taller than Addie while seated. Ethan hated him for that alone. The guy wore a faded grey T-shirt, his hair slicked back like he’d just gone for a run and this meeting was the next item on his to-do list. The biceps bulging beneath the stretched-out fabric probably earned him back whatever points he lost, if any, for his less than impressive first date attire.

  But maybe this wasn’t a date.

  “I love morning dates,” Addie replied.

  Okay, scratch that theory.

  “If it’s good, it can run right through to the afternoon and turn into lunch, even dinner if you play your cards right. If it’s bad, you still have the rest of the day to make up for it. I’m sure it won’t be bad, though, because you seem great, and this place is great, and the food is . . . well, great, so we’re definitely on the right track.”

  Her date blinked, clearly trying to catch up to the woman who talked a mile a minute. “We’ll see how breakfast goes first, but I make a mean sandwich.”

  He couldn’t see Addie’s reaction, but he could somehow sense she was smiling. She fiddled with her hoop earring and he spotted a tiny green leaf inked just behind her lobe. Ahh, so she does have a tatt. He sort of liked that she’d hidden it. She made you work for it. Ethan cocked his head, fascinated that she’d been able to sit still long enough for someone to mark that perfect porcelain skin. Why a leaf, though? And what kind of leaf was it, exactly? Maybe she had a green thumb. Or perhaps she was a pothead. He’d smoked a joint once or twice in his life, but he wasn’t about to advertise it to the world.

  “More coffee, Ethan?” Gwen asked.

  “Thanks,” he murmured distractedly.

  Gwen ducked down until she was in his direct line of sight. “How’s he doing?” she whispered.

  “Huh?”

  “The guy.” She nodded over her shoulder. “Bachelor number one.”

  Ethan coughed. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Gwen looked pointedly at his idling laptop. “She’s been trying the online dating thing. In fact, she has another date lined up later this week. Here again. I guess she figures a public place is best.”

  “I see. Do you plan on charging admission? I may need to rob my piggy bank.”

  Gwen shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

  “I’ll be sure to add it to my calendar,” he deadpanned. Gwen wasn’t usually so chatty with him, and she’d never been gossipy before. Glancing up, he was surprised to still find her hovering. Was it that obvious he’d been eavesdropping on Addie’s date?

  “She even answered some singles ads in The Daily Dispatch,” Gwen carried on. “That’s where she found this guy.”

  Ethan rarely paid attention to the local newspaper. It was such rubbish. But if Addie found it interesting . . . “Is that safe?”

  Gwen laughed. “I’d say so. We’re not known for harboring criminals in Kendal, unless eating too much pie is a crime. I’d happily do time for that.”

  He knew many people were trying the online dating thing these days, but Addie was looking for love in a newspaper, too. Could it really be that simple? Ethan pulled his laptop closer and wiggled his mouse to wake it, an unexpected wave of inspiration hitting him full force. “He seems to be doing well so far,” he grudgingly admitted.

  “Keep me posted,” Gwen said.

  He barely heard her over his fingers tapping frantically against the keys. The Girl Who Made Headlines. Chapter One.

  Addie absentmindedly stirred her tea as Jonathan prattled on about . . . God only knows what. His chiseled muscles were too distracting for her to care. Based on appearance alone, this guy had it going on. But she doubted her great-aunt Edna would have approved. She had instinctive insight about the opposite sex and always used to say that pumped-up men don’t make good husbands. Something about them having too much testosterone and not enough brain power to know when to keep it in their pants.

  Her mother, on the other hand, still hadn’t forgiven her for not marrying Steve, the guy she went to prom with, and liked to point out how Boring Steve had gone on to become a physician. A man who could provide well meant a comfortable and safe life—her mother’s mantra. She didn’t have to look beyond her own upbringing for proof of that, but she’d never seen her parents embrace. Her business-comes-first father hardly spent enough time at home to warrant such warmth.

  Edna had taken one glance at their carefully posed prom photo and commented that Steve looked like he had fallen arches and wouldn’t age well. The elder woman craved spark more than safety but stood by her assertion that the best men could give you both. Addie wondered if Dr. Steve ever found a cure for his own insufferable halitosis.

  All her life, Addie’d found it so much easier to connect with her great-aunt than with her own parents. As a child, she’d been enchanted by her, and as an adult, she admired Edna’s steadfast commitment to her beliefs.

  Which is kind of how she wound up here in the first place, searching for Mr. Right and using a tried-and-true formula passed down from the woman who’d already changed her life by leaps and bounds. She’d inherited her great-aunt’s house, along with a tidy sum of money, after she’d died close to a year ago. She never expected to be a homeowner until she got married and had kids, but she was no closer to getting hitched at thirty-two than she’d been at twenty.

  Dating sucked. She’d tried it all—blind dating, double dating, randomly-meeting-a-guy-at-a-bar dating, and she’d even played the damsel in distress at the hardware store, having heard it described as the hotspot for handy homeowners. A drill, a handsaw, and four new hammers later, and she still hadn’t reeled one in.

  So now she was trying Edna’s method. Edna believed fully in seeking love by the leaf. The practiced tasseographer met and married her husband all because the tea leaves told her he was the one. Of course, Addie thought the idea ludicrous at first, but Edna had proven time and again how reliable the leaves were. Eventually, she’d given in and let the dear old woman teach her how to read her own leaves.

  Not that she’d done much with the skill, but it was becoming harder and harder to ignore. Indeed, one night, about a week ago, as she sipped her tea at the kitchen table, the unrelenting hiss of the wind through the un-weatherproofed windows sounded suspiciously like Edna whispering to her, mocking her pathetic love life. The next morning, she vowed to stop enhancing her tea with valerian root to help her sleep. She also found herself flipping through the singles ads in The Daily Dispatch, and registering for an online dating site.

  So far, two bachelors had agreed to her request for a meeting. Well, the only two with any real potential, that is. She’d been inundated by cheesy pick-up lines and pictures of appendages—because that was a thing now—and eagerly dismissed the lewd dudes. Duds.

  Addie lifted her gaze to find Jonathan, bachelor number one, staring at her intently, like he awaited some kind of response.
“Uh . . . yes?” When in doubt, “yes” was the best answer.

  He beamed. “Sweet! We’ll have to try it sometime.”

  Oh, Christ. What had she agreed to? “Right, sure. It’s . . . the perfect weather for . . . that.”

  “I know, right? I’m so stoked you’re game.”

  In all honesty, it didn’t really matter what he proposed. The guy was gorgeous. If he’d asked her to go streaking in a cemetery, she would have agreed just to see him in his birthday suit.

  “You seem like you’re up for anything. What other kinds of adventurous stuff do you like to do?” While the question sounded innocent enough, the borderline-lecherous look in his eyes indicated his direction of thinking.

  Maybe she had just agreed to go streaking in a cemetery. Her mind raced as she tugged nervously at the clingy fabric of her tank top. “Oh, I’m a regular Bear Grylls,” she lied. “Name a mountain, I’ve climbed it. Sandboarding? Done it. Whitewater rafting? Child’s play.” Fibs, fables, and fictions so ridiculous even she had to stifle a smile, but at least she’d pulled a grin from him, too.

  He chuckled, leaning in closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear him. “I meant . . . bedroom activities.”

  She nodded like a bobble-head doll because that’s the only thing she could think to do. Her brain screamed, “Panic! Code red! Danger, Will Robinson!” Her blood pressure spiked to Mount Everest heights. But outwardly she was totally calm and cool and collected and . . . Holy moly, when did it get so hot in here?