 by Brenda Rothert.jpg)
Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Ever hear of Sven’s Beard, Minnesota?
Me either, until an inheritance from an uncle I never knew about brings me there. Expecting a windfall to support my dream of traveling the world, I instead get a weekly newspaper, complete with a crumbling building, a surly employee, and way too much interaction with the town’s bearded, grouchy lumberjack of a police chief.
My stay in the quirky northern town gets extended as I try to sell the newspaper and unravel truths about my family that leave me reeling. There’s no way I’m staying, despite the pull of the warm people in “the Beard”, and my hot nights with the gruff cop who drives me crazy in all the best ways.
While covering as the one and only reporter for the newspaper, I find myself following a trail that puts me in danger. Exposing the truth may help heal the man I’ve fallen for—if I don’t lose him in the process.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
Avon
“Well, crap.”
I was not at my destination, though the Maps app on my phone said otherwise. While I was supposedly at an attorney’s office, the giant Viking I stood in front of couldn’t give me legal advice, what with him being a bronze statue and all.
Sven’s Beard, Minnesota: population 3,621. Temperature: frozen tundra. GPS accuracy: nonexistent.
The statue in front of City Hall had to be at least eight feet tall, wearing chain mail and a decorative breastplate on its torso. Beneath was a barely there loincloth, legs rippling with muscle and thick calves encased in tall boots. His helmet had horns and his beard flowed long and thick, reaching his waist. The midsection of the beard had been rubbed by so many hands it now shone a warm shade of gold, but the rest of the statue was still dark bronze.
“Need directions?”
The deep voice broke my trance and I jumped, turning toward the speaker. I craned my neck to see his face because while he wasn’t as tall as the statue, he stood well over six feet. He also had a beard, but his was dark, short, and neatly trimmed. His hair was also cropped short, and his eyes were a vibrant, mossy green. He was broad-chested—an absolute lumberjack of a manand he wore a police uniform.
Stunned silent, I openly stared at him. Surely there was a pile of wood somewhere in need of this man’s chopping skills.
“Ma’am?” he prodded.
I cleared my throat and smiled at him. “Hi, I’m looking for Max Morrison’s office.”
He glared for a split second and then pointed across the street. “Right over there. It’s the one with the arched windows.”
I immediately forgave my Maps app because maybe this run-in was fortuitous. Afterward, my agenda was wide open, and my flight home wasn’t until Monday. I wanted to keep the conversation going. Maybe the lumberjack could keep me warm tonight. Smart? No. But tempting, yes.
“Thanks. How did you know I’m not from around here?”
He shrugged. “Only out-of-towners stare at Sven, and you’re dressed like a tourist.”
His derisive tone made me glance down at my heels and wide-leg linen pants. My feet were absolutely freezing, and my lightweight trench coat wasn’t even close to keeping away the icy chill of the wind.
It was November in northern Minnesota. I’d known it would be colder than my home in San Diego, but admittedly, I hadn’t expected drifting snow and bitterly cold winds. I wasn’t giving this guy the satisfaction of admitting that, though.
“I’m only in town for a few days,” I said, trying to force my teeth to stop chattering. “For a business meeting. So I’m wearing business attire.”
He scoffed. “Yeah, I can see that. Get some boots, or you’ll end up with frostbite.”
“Wow, that’s so thoughtful of you,” I said with over-the-top sweetness.
“Just don’t want the local hospitals filling up with tourists who should’ve known better.” He sent another pointed glance at my footwear.
So much for my attraction to him.
“Okay, Officer—” I read the gold name bar pinned to the surly man’s uniform. “Grady, thanks for the hospitality. You’re quite the ambassador for Sven’s Beard.”
“Wasn’t trying to be an ambassador,” he said, scowling. “And it’s Chief Grady.”
“Well, Chief, you can get back to writing speeding tickets because I’m going to my meeting.”
“Fantastic,” he deadpanned.
It was a bad idea to flip off the police chief, so I put my hand in my coat pocket before extending my middle finger. What a jackass. He’d lost his chance at getting into the new Ho Ho Ho bikini-cut undies I was wearing, a gift from my best friend Blair.
Which was his loss because the Ho Ho Ho thing had nothing to do with Christmas.
“Wait, the what?” I asked Max Morrison a few minutes later.
“The Sven’s Beard Chronicle. It’s our town’s weekly newspaper.”
I sat back in my chair, a leather wingback that added to the vintage vibe of Max’s office. He was a Sam Waterston from Law and Order look-alike, and he had a massive oak desk and bookcases filled with leather-bound legal reference books. I’d taken time off work to fly here for the reading of the will of Peter Douglas, an uncle I never knew existed until getting a call from Max a few days ago. The word inheritance had gotten my immediate attention.
“A weekly newspaper?” I was taken aback. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
Max’s smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Well, Pete filled it up with town news and ads every week. It’s very important to Sven’s Beard. That’s how we find out who’s getting married and what’s on the school lunch menu. And of course, who got arrested.”
So it was a business, like any other. I could sell it and add the revenue to my windfall. Not that I knew how much my windfall was, because I’d gone off on a mental tangent about the newspaper.