Itâs the most exciting time of the year in Branson Falls, Utahâthe annual county fair and parade. Branson Tribune editor, Kate Saxee, is busy covering stories involving animal auctions, the popular âpoop dropâ lottery, and a clown crash. Oh, and the Branson sugar factory just exploded.
The sugar factory explosion seems strange, and when an unidentified body is found inside, Kate is even more suspicious. In the middle of that investigation, Kate starts noticing other odd things going on around town, like a hot air balloon robbery, and a manâs attempt to wrestle a deer. After Kate has an eventful night that she canât rememberâshe realizes something fishy is happening in Branson, and thereâs more to it than a little memory loss.
Her investigation leads her down a rabbit hole of mysteriesâsecrets the mysterious P.I., Hawke, and politician, Drake, are more than willing to help her uncover. Along the way, a poorly negotiated wager forces Kate to spend time with Drake, and suddenly, her feelings about the men in her life are starting to conflict.
As if those things arenât enough, the Ladies have started a Hate Kate Facebook Group, and Kateâs mom is on a baking vendetta thatâs bound to cause an epic Catasophie. Kateâs not sure what waits for her at the end of the rabbit hole, but chances are good itâs more bodies, and if Kateâs not careful, her body might be one of them.
I was taking more notes when a deep, sexy voice whispered in my ear. âHey, Kitty Kate.â Every part of me was instantly aware of his presence. Even the hair on my arms paid attention. I was surprised I hadnât smelled his Swagger body wash before I heard him. I turned around and my breath hitched. I took him in from head to toe. His sandy brown hair was short and messy, like heâd styled it with just his hands, and his light green eyes were even more piercing in the sun. His faded jeans fit his ass perfectly, and hung looser around his thighs. His tight, teal t-shirt clung to his hard abs and biceps with a tattoo that peeked out from under his sleeves. I was determined to find out what it was a tattoo ofâand if he had any more. But, it hadnât happenedâyet.
âHey,â I said back, my voice breathy. âWhat are you doing here?â
âI was a witness,â Hawke answered. âI just gave my statement.â
I looked around. I hadnât seen his super sexy blue 1967 GT Shelby Mustang with white racing stripes. My eyes were trained to notice it. I would have found it immediately.
âI donât have it today,â Hawke said, reading my mindâno doubt one of his many talents.
Hawke had two giant red brick buildings on his property that matched his giant red brick house. One was a gym. The other was a garage. Though Iâd wanted to go in the garage, so far Iâd only been invited to Painâmy nickname for his gym. Iâd been looking forward to checking out Hawkeâs car collection, and wondered what he could possibly be driving today. I looked around. I didnât see a Lamborghini, and I was a little disappointed. âWhat are you driving, then?â
He nodded in the direction of a glossy black Harley with some sort of tribal design in matte black that stood out against the gloss. A black matte helmet hung from one of the handlebars. Everything about it said smooth, sexy, and dangerous. I sucked in a breath. Iâd already been in lust; Hawke on a bike catapulted my emotions straight to Iâll-do-anything-you-want-just-say-the-word territory. A vision of Jax Teller merged with Hawke in my head. My face got hot at the thought.
Hawkeâs lips slid into a slow smile. âWant a ride?â
Did I ever. And not just on the bike.
When I was nine, Mary Ann Boggs had written, âRosses are red, violets are blue, I turned out perfict what happened to youâ in my yearbook. Iâd returned the favor by writing, âAt least I can spell, you stupid butthole.â
That had resulted in a phone call from Mary Annâs mom berating my dirty mouth and questioning my momâs parenting abilities. Despite my attempts to show my mom the yearbook signature to prove I had just cause for my profanity, and Mary Ann actually was a stupid butthole, my mom didnât see things my way. Sheâd turned into a red-faced, female fury in a pink checkered skirt and pantyhose. I maintained that the pantyhose were probably the biggest part of the reason she was so angry, and had she not been wearing them, my sentence might have been less harsh. But, thanks to the demon who invented hosiery, sheâd washed my mouth out with soapâI still hadnât forgiven herâand told me never to use that word again. I had, and much worse, but I tried to be careful about swearing in her presence. It was the one time Iâd seen her truly out of her mind with rage in my whole life.
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"A fantastic contemporary mystery romance! The Devil Drinks Coffee is superbly written with a great cast of characters, comedy, a mystery with a twist, and a budding love triangle to round it out!"
âInDâtale 4.5 Star Review
Angela Corbett graduated from Westminster College and previously worked as a journalist, freelance writer, and director of communications and marketing. She lives in Utah with her extremely supportive husband, and loves classic cars, traveling, and chasing her five-pound Pomeranian, Pippinâwho is just as mischievous as his hobbit namesake. Sheâs the author of Young Adult, New Adult, and Adult fictionâwith lots of kissing. She writes under two names, Angela Corbett, and Destiny Ford.