Elle Brooks, I can’t tell you how much I love our friendship. Mostly, I feel bad that you are stuck with me, but I’m not going anywhere. For over five years you’ve been listening to me talk about bits and pieces of this story, thank you for being on this journey with me, while I brought it to life. One day soon, we’ll be together again and drinking all the pink champagne.
Megan Cooke, seriously, what would I do without you? You are unfailing in your friendship to me and I’m so grateful. From every word given in feedback, to holding my hand when the fear takes over, I know I can always lean on you and I’m so thankful. I’m so glad you loved the story… and now on to the next!
Kelli Bunton, to my fellow pie maker sister, thank you for listening to me talk ad nauseam about this story. Every single day for the past year you’ve had to hear about the characters, the plot, and the recipes, and I appreciate you more than you know.
Karla Sorensen and Kandi Steiner, when they say book friends are the best friends, I know they are talking about the two of you. Thank you for including me on your author journeys. It’s been so amazing to watch each of you grow over the last year, and I’m so proud to have you in my tribe. Karla, I want to send you all the bananagrams, and Kandi, I can’t wait until our next date night. Love you both.
Andrea Johnston, thank you so much for all the time you spent chatting with me about plot over this story. We must have talked about five different scenarios, and hopefully you’ll love the one I ended on. Thank you for being amazing, thank you for being you, and I hope you see you again soon!
Julie Burke, thank you for being the amazing designer that you are. I don’t know how or why you put up with me, but you always do. Thank you for your vision, your time, and for always being available when I need you. I love working with you and can’t wait to see what we come up with next. xo
Caitlin from Editing by C. Marie, Emily from Lawrence Editing, and Elaine from Allusion Graphics thank you so much for being a part of my team that brings my books to life. Your professionalism and unique touch makes me so proud of the final product. This story is just gorgeous, and I can’t wait to do it all again real soon!
Kathryn’s Krewe, thank you for your patience and for always cheering me on. I’ve always said I have the best readers in the world, and I mean it. I hope you love the story, I hope it leaves you eager for the next, and I can’t wait to hear what you think. Big Kiss!
To the Bloggers and Bookstagrammers, thank you for always being the first ones to raise your hands. Your dedication and professionalism to help us indie authors continually amazes me, and I’m so grateful. Thank you for sharing your thoughts, giving your time, and helping us spread the word. Mean the world to me.
To the readers, thank you for sticking by me and loving my stories. I know I take a little longer than other authors to release a story, but I do pour my heart into each one and I hope you know that. As always, I appreciate the feedback, love, and support. This dream wouldn’t be possible without all of you… xoxo
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The Hales Brothers Series
Can you imagine living in a home that is filled with hurt, lies, and fear? Well, that’s what it was like for us. Trapped in a small island town off the West Coast of Florida, for years we watched the tide roll in and out, while keeping so many secrets hidden from the world. Each of us hiding behind a different mask and dealing with our own struggles that ultimately lead us to a breaking point. That expression, “And the truth shall set you free . . .” Well, it did.
In the end, it became our choice. With the help of three amazing, beautiful girls we soaked up the drops of rain, endured the starless nights, and woke each day to an unforgettable sun. We are the Hale Brothers: Drew, Beau, and Matt . . . and these are our stories.
Drops of Rain
Starless Nights
Unforgettable Sun
Starving for Southern Series
The Sweetness of Life
Last Slice of Pie
Lessons in Lemonade – 2020 release
Standalone Titles
Blue Horizons
Chasing Clouds
Over ten years ago my husband and I were driving from Chicago to Tampa and somewhere in Kentucky I remember seeing a billboard that was all black with five white words, “I do, therefore I am!” I’m certain that it was a Nike ad, but for me I found this to be completely profound.
Take running for example. Most will say that a runner is someone who runs five days a week and runs under a ten-minute mile pace. Well, I can tell you that I never run five days a week and on my best days my pace is an eleven-minute mile. I have run quite a few half marathons and one full marathon. No matter what anyone says . . . I run, therefore I am a runner.
I’ve taken this same thought and applied it to so many areas of my life: cooking, gardening, quilting, and yes . . . writing.
I may not be culinary trained, but I love to cook, and my family and friends loves to eat my food. I cook; therefore, I am a chef!
My thumb is not black. I love to grow herbs, tomatoes, roses, and lavender. I garden; therefore, I am a gardener!
I love beautiful fabrics and I can follow a pattern. My triangles may not line up perfectly . . . but who cares, my quilts are still beautiful when they are finished. I quilt; therefore, I am a quilter.
I have been writing my entire life. It is my husband who finally said, “Who cares if people like your books or not? If you enjoy writing them and you love your stories…then write them.” He has always been my biggest fan and he was right. Being a writer has always been my dream and what I said I wanted to be when I grew up.
So, I’ve told you who I am and what I love to do . . . now I’m going to tell you the why.
I have two boys that are three years a part. My husband and I want to instill in them adventure, courage, and passion. We don’t expect them to be perfect at things, we just want them to try and do. It’s not about winning the race; it’s about showing up in the first place. We don’t want them to be discouraged by society stereotypes, we want them to embrace who they are and what they love. After all, we only get one life.
In the end, they won’t care how many books I actually sell . . . all that matters to them is that I said I was going to do it, I did it, and I have loved every minute of it.
Find something that you love and tell yourself, “I do, therefore I am.”
Thank you for reading Last Slice of Pie. If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a spoiler free review. Happy cooking and remember . . . food is love.
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Want to know how Zach and Shelby met? You can read their story in The Sweetness of Life. Here is the first chapter for your enjoyment.
“Oh my God, you have to try this, Shelby,” Meg says, startling me as she bumps her hip on the kitchen door, forcing it to swing open. Cinnamon and clove floats through the air of the empty restaurant and hits my nose. I watch as she crosses the small dining room to sit at my table.
It’s Sunday night, we’re closed, and the last of our staff left a while ago. The light from a streetlamp outside pours in the front window, illuminating the partially lit room. I hadn’t even realized the sun had set. We’ve both been here for fifteen hours, and it’s true what they say, time does fly when you’re having fun.
Closing the lid to my laptop, Meg takes the first bite of the dessert and drops the fork. It clatters to the plate as she leans back in her chair and lets out a low, satisfied moan.
“You’re so dramatic,” I scold, shaking my head and fighting a smile.
Her eyes snap to mine and sparkle with laughter. I’ve known Meg since we were freshmen in college and I swear the older we g
et, the more theatrical she becomes.
Snatching the fork, I cut off a bite of the dessert for myself, watching as the honey strings between the warm pastry layers and the fork. I’m not gonna lie, it smells divine, and I’ve been waiting for the last forty-five minutes to taste it.
“Yeah, but you love me anyway.” She grins. “Tell me, did I kill that recipe or what?” she asks, waiting for my reaction and watching me chew my bite. Then, as if she can’t handle the anticipation of my answer, she wipes her hands across her thighs to smooth down her apron—a light green-and-white gingham apron that once belonged to her grandmother. She wears it every time she’s creating something new in the kitchen. It’s like her thinking cap, and when she puts it on, I know to let her be.
Focusing on the individual flavors, I sort through each one to see if anything is lacking or overpowering. Swallowing the bite, my eyes find hers, and I smirk, knowing I’m about to set her off. “It needs salt.”
Her jaw drops, and a piece of her brown wavy hair escapes from the messy bun on top of her head.
“What! No way.” She blows the hair off her face, grabs the fork, and sinks it back into her version of baklava. In the South, we’re ruled by pecans, so she’s substituted them in place of the walnuts.
“Yes way.” I lick my lips. “And the cloves are a bit too strong.”
Silence falls between us as she takes another bite and then hands the fork back to me. Together, we finish off the piece, and she swipes her finger across the plate for the last remaining crumb.
“You’re crazy. That”—she points to the empty plate—“was delicious.”
“I’m not saying it wasn’t, but I’m right.” I reach for the sweet tea sitting next to my laptop and take a drink while letting her think through the recipe.
The sharpness in her eyes dissolves and the defensiveness in her posture relaxes as she lets out a long, loud sigh. “I hate it when you’re right.”
“No, you don’t. Just like I love you for your brand of crazy, you love me for my awesome, perfect palate.” I grin at her, and she rolls her eyes.
“I can’t argue with you there.” She wraps the fallen piece of hair back up into the knot. That’s what makes us so great together: she’s brilliant at creating, and I’m spot on at tasting.
Meg pushes away from the table, grabs the plate, and heads back to the kitchen, her heels clicking across the wood floor. That’s the other thing that connects us—we love—LOVE—high-heeled designer shoes.
Packing up my laptop, I look around at our two-year-old restaurant that I adore, Orange Blossom Avenue, or OBA for short. OBA isn’t a huge place, but we don’t need it to be. During the week, we’re open for breakfast and lunch. On the weekends, we open for brunch and the occasional special dinner, and we are always open for private events. The ambiance is quaint, clean, and Southern chic, with the color scheme focusing on orange, green, and white—like an orange blossom.
Owning this restaurant is Meg’s dream whereas mine is to have my own show on Food Network. Over the last ten plus years, I’ve spent almost every moment thinking about and working toward that moment when my dreams will finally come true and three weeks ago, I interviewed for a host position of a new show at their headquarters. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve lost hours of sleep dreaming about what my life will be like when I get to New York City.
“So, what are you going to call it?” I ask, walking into the kitchen.
“Southern baklava, of course.” Meg flashes a smile at me as she wipes down the prep station. “Who knows, maybe it’ll end up on your blog.” She eyes me with mischief.
My blog, Starving for Southern.
Sometime during our second year of college, I got the bright idea to start a food blog. Every weekend, instead of chasing boys and partying, Meg and I would travel all over and look for the best places to eat. It made sense to record it all. We ate at some amazing places and some not-so-good ones, too. Toss in our own recipes of things we liked, and before I knew it, the blog had a huge following. A huge, unexpected following.
Mostly, I’ve been able to keep my anonymity. Only a handful of people know that one of the owners of OBA and the author of Starving for Southern are the same person. After all, a true critic never exposes who they are, even though it was never my intention to be one. I would say that eighty-five percent of the food blog is positive—it really isn’t my goal to bash someone’s dream—but that other fifteen percent . . . it can’t be helped.
“I thought you were going out with that guy Neil tonight?” she asks me, carrying the last of today’s dishes to the dishwasher and stacking them on the rack.
“No, I need to finish this next article for Food Network Magazine.”
“He seems to be really into you . . . and he’s cute.” She takes my iced tea glass, adds it to the others, and pulls down the cage of the washer. It kicks on and the hum fills the space between us.
I met Neil at an art gallery opening last weekend that Meg and I catered. He was there to support his friend, the artist. “I know, and I thought he had potential until I watched him eat.”
Meg’s forehead wrinkles with confusion as she glances back over her shoulder at me, unties the apron, and hangs it on a large wrought iron coat rack that houses all the aprons we’ve collected over the years. “What happened?”
“He dropped in yesterday while you ran to the grocery store. He ordered the fried green tomato BLT and sucked his teeth after every bite.”
“Eww!” Meg squeals in horror. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this yesterday! What is it with you and guys lately? You have the worst track record of anyone ever,” she says as we walk out of the kitchen. I head back to my table as she goes into the small office to get today’s bank deposit.
“I know! I don’t get it at all.” Not that I’m interested in dividing my time between work and a guy, I prefer the work hands down, but I do enjoy their company every now and then. Bending over, I unclasp the straps of my heels, slide them off, and toss them in my bag. A groan escapes me as my feet flatten to the floor.
In the last year, I’ve cooked for a guy here at the restaurant who was vehemently against vegetables, so he wouldn’t do, and I found another taking photos of my recipes on his phone when I left the room—thief!
“You know, it all started with that wine guy Lexi tried to set me up with last fall at the Feeding America charity event.”
“Oh, that guy was the worst! What was his name again?”
“Zachary Wolff.”
Just saying his name heats my blood to a near boil, and my mind drifts back to an image of him and his haughty, disapproving glare. Lexi, who we met at culinary school, set us up on a blind date and had pointed him out to me shortly after we arrived, so I saw him before he saw me, and my breath caught at how incredibly handsome he was. For the first time in a long time, I thought, maybe, just maybe. But once introductions were made, he immediately frowned and looked away. Talk about a self-confidence crusher.
“That’s right. Too bad, too—he was hot. Wasn’t he a football player or something?”
“Yeah, he was hot, and he knew it, too. Lexi did mention that he was ex-NFL. I’ve never met a man so stuck on himself. How or why she’s friends with him, I’ll never know. Whatever. He barely gave me a second glance, which was so rude since he was supposed to be my date. Plus, he thought he was God’s gift to the wine world, looking down his nose at everyone at that event. And his wines aren’t that good!”
“How do you know? We don’t stock them here,” Meg asks as she emerges from the office.
“Well, technically I don’t know. I’ve never tasted his wines. But don’t you remember that article I stumbled across and showed you shortly after the event? The one that talked about the mediocre table wines? That’s his winery.”
“Now that you mention it, I do remember that. They rated those wines with four wilted grapes. Well, karma’s a bitch. Someone needs to remind him that you catch more flies with honey tha
n vinegar.”
“Seriously. I almost felt bad for him after reading it. Almost.” It’s too bad, though. I’d never seen eyes as blue as his—ice blue, that is. Just like his personality. “It’s all right, I really don’t have time to deal with a guy right now anyway. I want these articles to be so good that the editors of Food Network Magazine want to work with me year after year. And between the restaurant and the blog, I’m too busy. Career first, guys later. Remember?” I lift my bag onto my shoulder and tuck it under my arm.
Meg turns to face me with an understanding look. “I know you’re worried about the articles, but don’t be. They’ll be amazing . . . no, they already are.” She smiles, and it’s so genuine I almost believe her. How crazy different would life be if I’d never met her?
“I hope so,” I mumble.
Last year, a representative from the magazine contacted me to see if I was interested in writing for a special edition magazine, All About the South, and I about died. Someone had seen my blog and thought I would be perfect given my thorough knowledge of restaurants in the South. Meg and I celebrated for a solid week by eating, drinking, and splurging on some new shoes.
My assignment was simple, they were constructing four magazines for the four regions of the United States, and I was asked to recommend twenty-five different restaurants across the southeast with the theme focusing on seafood: Gulf shrimp, crawfish, crab, grouper, et cetera. Meg and I changed OBA’s operational hours to four days a week and we traveled Monday through Wednesday for three months, eating our way to a complete state of bliss.
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 25