The Red Coat Incident
4 cups humiliation
2 cups rejection
1/2 cup heartache
3 tbs regret
1 tsp tears
A pinch of hope
Sarah's life is a bit of a mess. After only a year of living her dream, teaching the third grade, one catastrophic mistake has her packing her bags and running away. Lost and broken, she clings to the small hope that her old stomping grounds will be the perfect place for her to start fresh. When she walks into Little Bird Cafe, looking for a job, she finds herself unprepared for the sweet deliciousness that is Brandon.
The Olivia Incident
5 cups loyalty
3 cups stupidity
1/4 cup resentment
2 tbs distrust
1 tsp weakness
A pinch of lust
Brandon's dream is finally coming true. His days may be long and hard, but he refuses to complain. He starts every morning in his kitchen, baking his signature pastries. With the students pouring into the college town he calls home any day now, he knows he needs help around the shop. When Sarah, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty, walks into Little Bird asking for a job, he can't refuse her. As her new boss, he tries to convince himself that he can look, but he can't touch.
When he lets her loose in his kitchen, her broken heart is mended, his battered heart is stolen, and they can't deny that they both want more. So much more.
[Book three in the Made for Love series can be read as a STANDALONE novel! I promise. Written for audiences 18+ years of age due to language and sexual content.]
About the Author:
R.C. Martin finds it a bit awkward referring to herself in the third person, so she's only going to do it for this one sentence. (We all know who's writing this bio anyway!)
I'm a born and bred Coloradan. I will always claim that square state as my home! While I now reside in Virginia, the land of the Rocky Mountains is where I've left a piece of my heart and where my characters come to life. I'm a woman in love with love and filled to the brim with compassion for women like me, on a journey to find themselves in today's society. I aspire to inspire my readers to do more than settle. I hope that my writing will remind everyone that she (or he!) is valuable and worthy of the best kind of love--the kind that is gentle, patient, faithful, passionate, all consuming, never ending, and leaves you breathless.
When I'm not writing I'm reading; when I'm not reading I'm writing...you know how it goes! I also enjoy cooking, baking, crocheting, and jigsaw puzzles. Basically, I'm an old soul with a young heart, nonchalantly waiting for my prince to come.
Social Media Links:
“I’m glad you think so,” he says, pulling out a stool and signaling for me to sit. “Your first order of business will be to try everything that’s on the menu today.” My jaw drops open as he sets a plate full of pastries in front of me.
Best. First day. Ever.
“You don’t have to eat it all—”
“Oh, but can I?” I mutter, reaching for the first scone that I see.
He chuckles. “Eat as much as you’d like, just be sure to try everything. It’s important that my staff knows what everything tastes like so you can describe it to customers who have questions. I make the pastries on a weekly rotation, unless I get a special order.”
As soon as the buttery scone begins to melt on my tongue, a moan I can’t contain forces itself from my throat. “You made this? This morning?” I ask with a mouthful.
He nods at me with a smirk.
“Am I eating a butter pecan scone?”
He nods once more, his smirk turning into a smile.
Shit. I’m in so much trouble. How in the hell is my battered heart supposed to compete with that smile and this scone made by that sexy man who I keep imagining in nothing but his damn apron?
Too much smut. I’ve been reading too much smut!
Or maybe not enough…
“Remember, you have to try everything. I’ll be right back,” he tells me, leaving me with the plate of deliciousness.
By the time he returns, I’ve tried his lemon poppyseed scone, his apple-carrot-raisin loaf, his cinnamon swirl coffee cake, and I’m devouring his blueberry crumble muffin. I can’t even bring myself to be ashamed of my gluttony—with four more things left to try.
“That one’s a best seller,” he says with a wink as I polish it off.
If baked goods are my weakness, Brandon’s baked goods just may be the death of me. Especially if they come with a wink.
I look away from him, afraid I’ll start staring if I don’t. I reach for another pastry as I pull my phone out of my pocket, needing a better distraction just as much as I need to share the discovery of my new favorite muffin.
Me: OMG. If you think my baking is good, you haven’t LIVED until you’ve tried Brandon’s blueberry crumble muffin.
To my delight, and relief, she shoots back a text almost immediately.
Aria: Yum! Guess I know where I’m coming for lunch…
Me: Dear Lord—I just bit into a chocolate zucchini muffin. This job is going to make me SO fat.
Aria: Lol. Are you eating the whole pastry case or what?!?
Aria: Josh teaches a kickboxing class three nights a week! (MWF) Come with me!
Me: YES! Also—I really am eating the whole pastry case. Boss’s orders.
Aria: Clearly I’m in the wrong profession.
Aria: Anyway, gotta jet. Can’t be late for work. See you at lunch! Happy First Day!!!!
“If you finish that entire plate, I swear, I’m giving you a raise.”
I look up to find Brandon not two feet away, leaning against the work island where I sit, watching me. It isn’t until I look down at the plate that I realize I’ve now eaten two whole muffins and at least half of everything else.
If I were a blushing woman, my cheeks would be on fire. Lucky for me, I only blush when I’m intoxicated. Right now, I’m just drunk on sugar, which is so much better and much less embarrassing. Yet, when I think about it, I recognize that I’ve never been embarrassed about my ability to consume an obnoxious amount of baked deliciousness. When my eyes move from the plate to meet Brandon’s hazel irises, I remember that it’s him that’s making me anxious.
I clear my throat and try and think of something clever to say to dispel the awkward moment that’s filled with my silence. “Hi. My name is Sarah. I’m a sugarholic…I’m about ten seconds sober.”
He laughs and I temporarily forget why I’m not supposed to want him. “Hi, Sarah.”
“Too bad about that raise,” I quip, pushing the plate away from me. “I can’t eat another bite.”
“There’s always tomorrow,” he tells me before he reaches for the remnants of the lemon poppyseed scone and pops it into his mouth. Dammit. Don’t watch him eat. Is eating supposed to be sexy? Or is that the sugar talking?
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