Cookies for Courting

By Amber Kell

Previously Released

After his sister’s death, businessman Marshall Hunter gains custody of his niece. Unused to children, Marshall struggles to connect with her. In an effort to make her more comfortable in her new home, he hires professional muralist Pace Barlow to personalize her room.

Pace is intrigued by his tiny client, and even more interested in her handsome uncle, but Pace isn’t certain he’s ready for the commitment of an instant family.
When Marshall decides to move for the sake of his niece, will he be able to keep his relationship with his young artist, or will he have to give up love to become a good father for a lonely little girl?

The love baked into an old-fashioned recipe might bring the two men together, but some things take more than magical cookies to fix.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amber Kell
• Release date: Jan 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463175316

Amber Kell

Amber Kell is a dreamer who has been writing stories in her head for as long as she could remember.She lives in Seattle with her husband, two sons, three cats and one very stupid dog. To learn more about her current books or works in progress, check out her blog at http://amberkell.wordpress.com.Her fans can also reach her at [e-mail].

Book preview

Chapter 1

PACE BARLOW slathered his brush with thick acrylic paint. Swiping his hand sideways, he drew a fat crimson line across the canvas. He stepped back to examine it for a minute before doing the same thing again, intersecting the two marks. Biting his lip, he considered the large, still mostly white, space. He’d already finished his piece for the auction, but this one had pulled him out of bed and insisted he do another painting. Sometimes art was a bitchy mistress.

I need blue. He turned to locate his tube of cobalt paint. Scanning the pile on his side table, he groaned. He really needed to pick up his studio. He’d been in an artistic cloud for the past few days and hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings. A hurricane could’ve hit the room and it wouldn’t have made a difference in the overall tidiness of his workspace.

His cell phone rang. The sound of crickets chirping distracted him from his search. He’d chosen that ringtone because it was just irritating enough to pull him out of his art. Normally, he ignored the phone, but on the off chance it could be a customer, he decided to answer it.

His checking account was becoming perilously low—again. If this kept up, he’d have to dip into his trust fund. He hated to do that. It dented his pride when he had to fall back upon the money his grandfather had left him.

Pace preferred to live a life of meaning and donate his time and interest income to various charities around town. Instead of lounging around a big house or working on his tan like his trust-fund friends.

After placing his brush and palette on a paint-spattered crate, Pace grabbed his phone from its safety zone on top of a high shelf.

Pace didn’t recognize the number but pressed to connect anyway. Hello?

Is this Pace Barlow? a woman asked in a no-nonsense voice.

Pace’s money senses tingled. Yes.

I’m Joyce Smith, Marshall Hunter’s assistant. He’s asked me to find an artist to paint a mural for his niece’s bedroom. You were highly recommended by Mrs. Breverton. Would you be interested in coming in and interviewing with Mr. Hunter about the job?

Pace cleared his throat. I’d be happy to.

Would tomorrow at ten work for you? We’re trying to get this project started as soon as possible.

That would be fine. Pace struggled to keep his voice steady and not screech with excitement. He loved doing murals. Mrs. Breverton had been a bitchy, demanding client, but she’d paid really well and he’d received two other jobs from her recommendations. He might not want to live off his inheritance, but he didn’t mind using his connections. A guy had to eat.

Excellent. Don’t forget to bring your portfolio.

Will do. Pace said his good-byes, then disconnected and spun in a circle, pumping his fist. Yes!

The day was looking up after all. His phone rang again. Pace stopped jumping around long enough to answer.

Hello?

Pace, where are you? You were supposed to be here like an hour ago, a hard Russian-accented voice demanded.

Oh crap.

He’d completely forgotten he was supposed to meet his friend at the new nightclub that had opened a few streets from his studio.

Sandy? Sorry, man. I got involved in my painting. I’m not going to make it. I might have a job lined up, and I need to bring my portfolio to an interview tomorrow. I haven’t updated it in a few months.

Sandlova Aliev, nephew of Boris Aliev, head of the Russian mob, made a rude, annoyed sound. How am I going to attract the right man if you aren’t here to be bait?

Sandy, I might get to do a mural. Pace couldn’t help the whine in his voice. He knew he was in the wrong, but he needed a new art project.

Sandy sighed. Fine, but if I don’t get sex tonight I’m blaming you.

Pace could sympathize. It had been a while since he’d had sex, but in a contest between art and fucking, art always won. Sorry, buddy, call Frankie. He’s pretty enough to be your wingman even if I doubt you need one.

Half of the time, Sandy made stuff up just to get Pace out of his studio. Sandy was a loyal if slightly dangerous friend.

Fine, if you’re sure…? Sandy let it hang, as if maybe Pace would suddenly decide to change his mind.

I’m sure. The club scene had begun to wear Pace down. Maybe he’d gotten too old for that sort of thing. The loud music and pulsing lights no longer got him excited. He was more likely to get a headache than get laid.

Let’s get together Sunday and have brunch at Harold’s, Sandy said.

I’ll see you there at eleven. Pace agreed. Harold’s was an overpriced restaurant with even snobbier waiters, but it overlooked the water and had the best eggs Benedict on the planet. He’d gladly pay a premium if it got him out of another night of clubbing. Hell, he’d even pay for Sandy’s breakfast and anyone else he brought along.

I’m getting old, he said to the empty room. Maybe I should just get a fucking cat.

His excitement over a possible job faded as he looked around his messy studio. Nobody would want to live with someone so involved in his inner world that he rarely stepped out to see what was going on around him.

At least my apartment isn’t quite so bad. Probably because I’m never there.

He lived in a studio apartment, the only place he could afford with the costs of renting his art space. Still, he kept it tidy so he wasn’t tripping over all his crap all the time. He needed to spread that neatness to his work area.

After placing a cover over his current painting, Pace cleaned up his brushes and headed home. The two-block walk along the tree-lined street always made for a good end to the day, not to mention an amazing Thai restaurant lay between the two spots.

He loved Thaitian Thai. They had the best pad Thai with chicken he’d ever eaten. His stomach grumbled, and Pace made a beeline for the restaurant door.

Hey, Pace, Kiet, the owner, called out. Kiet had started the place in his early twenties with some money from his parents. Now in his midthirties, he had made a success out of his takeout business. Pace usually called ahead, but he’d forgotten in his rush to get home and update