A Purr-fect Storm

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by Addison Moore


  Who knows? Maybe Merilee will trip on the courthouse stairs—and if she does, I hope to see it.

  Aw heck, maybe she’ll skin a knee.

  Chapter 2

  Ashford County is less than twenty minutes down the highway, and unlike Honey Hollow with its houses tucked against the evergreens, Ashford is more of your urban sprawl, complete with a few high-rises downtown and a nice little brick building next to the courthouse that reads World’s Best Coffee. And seeing that I have a few minutes to spare, I make a beeline toward that java-laden establishment in hopes to give me the proper energy I’ll need to see me through this inglorious day.

  But as horrible as getting called to court may be, it’s the furthest thing from my scattered mind at the moment. I just can’t seem to get over those caramel apple pies waiting for me back at the Honey Pot Diner. I whipped up a few extra so Keelie and the rest of the staff could indulge in the ooey gooey good—

  No sooner do I round the corner from the parking structure to the coffee shop than a brick wall of a body crashes into mine.

  “Oh!” I cry as my purse goes flying as does his briefcase, only to clash all on their own before exploding like a paper filled and blessed by Sephora’s finest offerings piñata. A plethora of office supplies and lipsticks rain down over us—in my defense, I had no idea what shade of red went best with a not guilty plea, thus the half dozen or so tubes of MAC pelting us like lethargic bullets. “I’m so sorry!” I pant over the dark-haired man with the body of a linebacker already busy scooping up his files posthaste.

  “No, it’s fine, really,” he grumbles as if it were anything but.

  “It’s not fine. I was so wrapped up thinking about caramel”—I quickly join him in scooping up the eight by ten slices of what feels like an entire Canadian forest sprawled at our feet—“and once I dive deep into the caramel apple pie corner of my mind, I may as well be on another planet entirely.”

  A tube of lipstick begins to roll toward the gutter, and instinctively I dive over it, slapping it into submission with the palm of my hand. I may not mind secondhand clothes, but I’ve invested enough into my face to warrant a second car at this point. Nary a lipstick shall be lost on my watch.

  I jerk my head up abruptly, and the top of my head hits him in the fun zone a little too hard.

  “Geez,” he howls out in pain as he hobbles backward, protectively cupping his man parts while proceeding to straddle me awkwardly in the process.

  “Dear heavens,” I pant, struggling to rise and accidentally giving him an inadvertent piggyback ride in the process. “Oh my God,” I cry as my back begs to cave in from the weight of his body.

  “Hang on.” His voice rises in an unnatural way as if he were in fact speaking to a horse.

  Dear Lord. Kill me. Here I am in the middle of downtown Ashford showing a grown man a bucking bronco of a good time.

  “Let’s try this another way,” I say, dropping flat onto my stomach, and off he rockets, stumbling forward toward a dogwood bush and—oh no, his suit is far too nice to be embellished with twigs.

  I grab onto his ankles, and he falls face-first into the border garden, his head and torso buried at least a foot deep in lavender hyacinths.

  Okay, so holding onto his ankles wasn’t the brainstorm I had thought it would be.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” he barks, struggling to right himself.

  “Oh dear!” I stagger halfway up just as he backs out and pegs me in the forehead with his rock-hard behind and lands me flat on my back, knocking the wind right out of me.

  “God Almighty,” he grunts, offering me a hand and, soon enough, we’re both back on our feet, face to scowling face. His hair is mussed and wild. His eyes are nothing but two irate blue flames, scalding me with their hatred.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, my lips quivering as if I were about to cry. My head is pounding, and I feel as if I just crawled through a trench on the front lines, only to make it out half-alive.

  “I’m sorry I ever got out of bed this morning.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, and it’s quickly becoming evident not only did I take down a well-dressed man but I took down an abnormally handsome one at that.

  He’s smooth skinned, just the right amount of stubble peppering his face, and he looks as if he’s got a half-decade on me at least.

  “My name is Lottie Lemon, and if you don’t mind, I’d love to buy you a cup of coffee for the trouble.”

  It’s the least I could do after giving the front and back of his crotch such an enthusiastic hello with my face of all things. Gah!

  Once I reiterate this entire fiasco to Keelie, I’m sure this day will go down in infamy as my most proficient foray in testosterone sciences.

  “No,” he says, heading toward the coffee shop, and I don’t hesitate to whiz right next to him, suddenly thrown for a loop because I happened to have thought the shop was in the other direction. That might just be why we bumped into one another so violently.

  “What do you mean no?” I say, zipping inside as he holds the door open for me and scuttling into the line. “Is that some kind of male machismo thing? Like you can’t have a woman buy a cup of coffee for you because it might stick a pin in your ego? Because I’m pretty sure the world has moved well past that point, and I promise you won’t suddenly have the need to use a feminine hygiene product just because someone with slightly more estrogen happened to spring for your cup of morning joe. You do realize that men and women are comprised of both estrogen and testosterone. In fact, at about the age of seventy, we equal out as far as the aforementioned hormones go, and there’s not a lot of gender difference hormonally speaking at that point. But, chances are, I won’t be standing next to you to buy that cup of coffee for you when you hit the big seven zero—so, if I were you, I’d take me up on my free latte right now in the present.” I step up to the barista waiting to take my order and nod over at him. “I’m buying for the two of us.”

  “I said no.” His eyes slit to nothing.

  As if my little Kung Fu takedown outside didn’t infuriate him enough—my offer to make all of his java dreams come true has him wanting to rocket through the roof with that briefcase he’s clutching as if it had nuclear codes inside of it.

  “Fine.” I put in my order and pay. And as soon as the barista asks for my name, I say it loud and proud. “L-O-T-T-I-E”—I turn back at the aggressively handsome, aggressively angry well-suited man and smile—“It’s Lottie. I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.”

  “I didn’t give it.” His lips twitch in the right direction, but there’s not a hint of a smile.

  So irritating.

  I step aside as he puts in his order, keeping an ear open to hear his name once he shouts it over the counter. I just had an impromptu meet and greet with that man’s family jewels and had his backside give me a spontaneous high-five over the forehead.

  I’m not leaving this establishment until I at least get his initials.

  But as fate, or my luck as it were, would have it, the barista doesn’t ask. She simply flirts and giggles in his presence as I’m sure women and girls alike are prone to do.

  My guess is he’s a regular anyways. As soon as my drink is ready, I take my time near the creamers, rearrange the straws and the napkins until his cup lands on the pick-up counter, and then I see it in black and white but don’t believe it.

  I tiptoe over on the balls of my feet, and my mouth falls open as he scoops it up with pride. He flexes the cup my way so I can get a better look.

  “Mr. Sexy?” I flatline.

  Gone is the apologetic schoolgirl and come to stay is the hardened-by-life New Yorker that took up residence in me during my short tenure there. Every now and again she likes to make a reprisal and, believe you me, she’s a barrel of F-U-N.

  “That’s right.” He gives a subtle wink as he makes his way to the door. “Do yourself and everyone else a favor and watch where you’re going, would you? You could walk into a real disaster if you’re not
careful.”

  A gasp gets locked in my throat, and I choke on a half a dozen comebacks.

  “You watch where you’re going! And if I were you, I’d consider investing in a jock strap!” Okay, so that’s not how I envisioned that would go, but, for whatever it’s worth, it felt good to take down his ego a notch.

  The barista and—come to think of it—just about every other patron in the establishment is ogling at me as if I just told off the Almighty Himself.

  I avert my eyes at the thought. I bet that man was nothing more than some nine-to-five pencil pusher ready to submit to his cubicle prison cell. He’s got a sentence of roughly forty years, and I can’t say I feel too sorry for him.

  I head out the door and up the steps to the Ashford County Courthouse.

  Mr. Sexy.

  I’ve got another name for him, and it’s not nearly as generous.

  *Need more of Honey Hollow? Click here and pick up—> Cutie Pies and Deadly Lies NOW!

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  A Purr-fect Storm

  A Fur-miliar Fatality

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  Acknowledgments

  Thank YOU, the reader, for joining us on this adventure to Starry Falls. We hope you’re enjoying the MEOW FOR MURDER series as much as we are. Don’t miss A Fur-miliar Fatality coming up next! Bowie’s ex is in town and he brings some serious trouble to Starry Falls!

  Special thank you to the following people for taking care of this book—Amy Barber, Jodie Tarleton, Margaret Lapointe, Ashley Daniels and Lisa Markson.

  A heartfelt thank you to Paige Maroney Smith for being so amazing in every single way.

  And last, but never least, thank you to Him who sits on the throne. Worthy is the Lamb! Glory and honor and power are yours. We owe you everything.

  About the Authors

  Addison Moore is a New York Times, USA TODAY, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author. Her work has been featured in Cosmopolitan Magazine. Previously she worked as a therapist on a locked psychiatric unit for nearly a decade. She resides on the West Coast with her husband, four wonderful children, and two dogs where she eats too much chocolate and stays up way too late. When she's not writing, she's reading. Addison’s Celestra Series has been optioned for film by 20th Century Fox.

  Bellamy Bloom is a USA TODAY bestselling author who w
rites cozy mysteries filled with humor, intrigue and a touch of the supernatural. When she's not writing up a murderous storm she's snuggled by the fire with her two precious pooches, chewing down her to-be-read pile and drinking copious amounts of coffee.

  For up to the minute pre-order and new release alerts:

  *Be sure to subscribe to Addison and Bellamy’s mailing list for sneak peeks and updates on all upcoming releases!

  ✦Follow Addison on Bookbub

  ✦Follow Bellamy on Bookbub

  ✦Follow Addison on Amazon

  ✦Follow Bellamy on Amazon

  *Want to chat about the books? Hop over to Addison’s Reader Corner on Facebook!

  Or click over to Addison’s WEBSITE

  Or click over to Bellamy’s WEBSITE

  Feel free to visit Addison on Instagram.

 

 

 


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