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Author Signed Paperback A White Christmas Lie

Author Signed Paperback A White Christmas Lie

  • Author-signed copy
  • great gift idea
  • Paperback
Author Signed copy of Book 1 of the Seasons of Sugar Creek

Main Tropes

  • Attraction at first sight
  • rags to riches
  • star-crossed lovers
  • defy the odds
  • popular boy
  • poor girl


5-star review: "Oh, and romance and comedy and drama and friendship. I’m ready for another from Amey."

Coco and Deb Poverly are doing fine. Just don’t ask about the money, the bills, or the new shop threatening Deb’s bakery.

Coco will do anything to help her great-aunt, even trade places with a wedding guest for extra cash.

Dressed as an heiress, Coco falls for the charm and good looks of none other than Preston Laurent, Sugar Creek’s most eligible bachelor. But he’s a Laurent. No matter how hot he looks in a tux, they can't be together.

Deb's never married and never forgave Roland Laurent for not returning to Sugar Creek. But now he's back in town, and just as good looking as ever. But her pride won't let her explain what happened half a century ago.

How can she watch Coco and Preston's relationship fail after the generations of bad blood between their families?

And don't forget the Sugar Mamas. Can women of a certain age wear tiaras and help the community? YOU BET! This band of close-knit friends help Coco and Deb find their true loves even after many years.

Intro to Chapter 1

Coco Poverly needed two thousand more dollars to buy Aunt Deb the perfect Christmas present. The shipping deadline—December fifteenth—for the professional bread slicer, was only two weeks away. In desperation, she agreed to wear a giant white chef’s toque and coat, large enough to use as a sail, to dab the finishing touches on a Christmas-themed wedding cake.
The bride preparing for her nuptials in the grand Laurent Mansion up the snow-covered walk from the gatehouse, insisted the catering staff wear the chef uniform instead of the usual black long-sleeved T-shirt with Sugar Creek Catering embroidered over the heart.
Yeah, she was one of those kind of brides.
Somehow, Coco got suckered into assisting Megan with the rest of the food.
At a table set inside the stone walls of the gatehouse, Coco rolled her eyes and, using a spoon, stuffed another mushroom with cream cheese and truffle oil before spreading delicate orange orbs of caviar on top. Kristy and Megan hired her for desserts, not for cooking. Baking and cooking were two separate things. One of them Coco was good at. The other…well, let’s just say she wasn’t making those mushrooms look appetizing.
She was a baker not a mushroom-stuffer.
Her fingers were covered in the white mess. Without thinking, she took a lick off the back knuckle of her thumb.
Coco hated that her name sounded like baking chocolate when drawn out in Megan’s annoying nasally voice. Coco's face burned at being caught.
Megan, Kristy’s daughter, leaned over the plastic table and slapped her hand. “Now go wash your hands.” She took the mushroom in question and tossed it into the trash. “No licking. And you should be using gloves.”
Coco glanced to the other sous-chefs in the kitchen, standing over rented, hot propane stoves, singing along to Christmas oldies on the radio. “I didn’t touch the mushroom after I licked my finger.” She held up her cream-cheesed-covered hands. “I was planning on washing my hands anyway.”
Although the December chill blew around outside, where uniformed valets parked cars up and down the brick drive, the heat was on overdrive in the gatehouse, set up as a staging area. The bride wanted the menu freshly made on site, but she didn’t want the stench of cooking in the house.
Megan cocked her hip and placed a gloved hand on her waist. “If you won’t wear gloves, you should probably leave.” Megan didn’t own the business. Her mom was the one cutting the check.
Coco rolled her eyes. Leave. That’s what she was hoping to do ever since she finished the cake.
All around Coco, the rest of the catering staff hunched over a the rented professional ovens and ranges near the front, cooking asparagus, rolls, gravy, and chicken. The smells of roasting, frying, and baking filled the room.
“I’m happy to go,” she murmured under her breath. But she needed the overtime cash.
Humming a Christmas tune, Coco crossed to the bathrooms near the rear of the gatehouse to wash her hands. On her way, she stopped to admire the view.
Two French doors perfectly framed the sprawling, red brick, Georgian revival mansion covered in snow upon the hill. A wreath tied with a red bow decorated each of the many lighted windows of the two stories. Along with white lights, lining the rooftop and windows, decorative lanterns lit the garden shrubs, as dusk approached around four.
She paused, inhaling the view with a cleansing breath. The peaceful scene contrasted with the hustle and bustle of the preparations for the wedding behind her. What would it be like to be in that house, surrounded by well-heeled, well-connected guests? She’d heard about the mansion for years, but she’d never been inside. Mostly, it sat vacant, used only occasionally by the family—for as long as she could remember.
“Look at these mushrooms. They’re all ugly. Did fill these with a shovel? You are, like, the worst at this.” Megan’s pitchy voice carried across the room. “I’m telling my mom.” She threw down her gloves and marched out of the room.
Kristy strode into the room. “What is going on?” Her long, gray-blonde ponytail flipped over her shoulder, and she wore a purple long sleeved shirt. Why she was exempt from the ugly chef coat escaped Coco. Her face we red from the heat in the gatehouse.
“She’s is doing a terrible job.” Megan picked up the platter Coco had worked on. “Look at these mushrooms.”
Coco's face flushed at the accusation. “I was hired to finish the piping on the cake, not stuff mushrooms.” She finished the cake hours ago.
“And she refuses to wear gloves.” She put on her gloves with a smug smile.
Megan’s whiney voice grated on Coco's nerves. “If we could put the mixture into a pastry bag, I could pipe them. They would look prettier and be easier to do.” That’s what she did at the bakery to fill anything.
Folding her arms across her chest, Megan twisted her face into a sneer. “Maybe if you weren’t so clumsy with the spoon, you wouldn’t have to use a bag.” When Megan scowled, she had the jowls of pit bull. “Get back to work.” Seeing people had stopped to watch the drama, she clapped her gloved hands with the crinkle of plastic. “We’re on a time crunch, people.”
Just because her mom owned the business, Megan thought she was the boss. After washing her hands, Coco rolled her eyes and went back to the mushroom table, smelling the sweet scent of her aunt’s cake sitting behind her. Oh, how she’d rather be working in the Sweet Suite Bakery, her day job, rather than here.
Megan barked orders to others then turned to Coco. “You’re not working.”
This was so not worth a measly hourly wage.
Coco unbuttoned the coat and removed the hat. “You know what? I’m done. Sign me out.” She could find some other less painful to pay for Aunt Deb’s Christmas present.
“Where are you going?” Kristy picked up the clipboard.
Laying the uniform on a chair, Coco wiped her hands on a nearby towel. “I finished my end of the deal. I only stayed the extra hours to help out. But I’m outta here. Good night.” Her chest rose and fell with the confrontation.
Megan dropped her jaw. “You can’t quit.”
“Watch me.” Coco hated overbearing bosses. Who did they think she was? Throwing her coat over her, she grabbed her purse and keys and stepped out into the cold wintery air. The crisp breeze felt good on her hot face. The overcast sky matched the color of the snow—white-gray. Only a few minutes remained before sunset. She marched a few steps before she heard someone speak.
“Excuse me.”
Coco turned.
A blonde woman in a fur coat blew by her with the scent of designer perfume. She held a small, silver-wrapped gift. “Do you have a pen?”
“Maybe in my purse.”
The blonde stamped her feet in the cold while Coco dug through her purse. “I cannot believe I forgot to write my name on the gift tag.” The woman was a little younger than Coco's twenty-three years and wore heavy eyeliner, enough lipstick to last her all winter, and her blond hair was perfectly set in place. “After driving all this way from Concord, you would’ve thought I’d noticed.”
Concord, New Hamshire? She doubted that. Concord, Massachusetts? Mostly likely. Rumor had it that the bride was from a well-connected family in Boston. Why she chose to get married on the outskirts of Sugar Creek, Vermont was such a mystery. Sugar Creek was beautiful in every season, but it wasn’t huge—only about twenty thousand people lived on the banks of Lake Champlain. Mostly the maple trees and the skiing kept jobs in town.
Coco shook her head. When she got married, whenever that would happen, she didn’t want to inconvenience her family and friends and make them drive over four hours just to see her wed. At last, at the bottom of the purse, she found a pen. “Here you go.”
With too-white teeth, the woman forced a smile and took the pen, settling a rose gold clutch on a brick wall. “I didn’t want to come to this wedding anyway.”
“Oh?” Coco watched her scrawl Silvia Patterson on the tag near the bow. She couldn’t imagine not wanting to go to such a grand event.
Silvia threw down the pen, picking up her clutch. “My parents made me come. I’m supposed to be at a party in Montreal, but no, I had to come here and represent the family. So now I can’t leave until tomorrow morning.” She picked up the gift. “My parents spend the winter in their house in Barbados. They go every winter, no exceptions.” She rolled her eyes. “What I wouldn’t pay to be on my way to Canada right now. Tatum Fast is at my friend’s house party, playing in four hours. A grammy winner is playing at a party where I’m invited.” She jabbed a thumb toward the house. “And I have to go to this boring wedding where I don’t even know anyone. All by myself.”
“That’s such a shame.” Coco picked up the pen Silvia left on the wall. After the scene she just left, she wanted to get far away, put her feet up, or take a bath. “Too bad you can’t get someone else to drop off the present—talk to the guests, schmooze, sign the guest registry—and then you could be on your way. Your parents would never know.”
Silvia’s eyes lit up. “You’re brilliant.” She ran her gaze over Coco's body. “You’re about my size. Although it’s hard to tell with your coat on. Tell you what. I have another outfit in the car. Why don’t you wear my dress and run this up to the house? You’d only need to be there long enough to sign the guestbook and drop off the present and talk to a few guests. You can stay for food, drinks—whatever.” She wiggled her fingers. “You would introduce yourself as me. It’s been ages since I’ve seen any of these people. Nobody would know what I look like. If my parents asked anyone, they’d say I was here.”
“What wait?” Coco wasn’t volunteering for the job. Opening her mouth, Coco glanced around at the manicured and snow-covered sprawling garden. “I’m not going in there pretending to be you.”

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