Wait Watchers A Liberty Heights Romance: Liberty Heights Romance

By Elle Druskin

Is anything left that can happen in Liberty Heights? Silly question. Straight laced literary agent Portia Hart is hiding out from a crazy wannabee writer. Crazy hits a whole new level at LouAnn's Bed and Breakfast. Sister BettyAnn is in hysterics. A wannabee magician keeps having accidents. Uncle Rupert insists Portia is Zelda Fitzgerald. And that's just for starters. Truman Wilder is back in town to build a new life with daughter Rosie after a mystery surrounding his wife's recent death. Rosie is furious and hates Liberty Heights. In one day he manages to break Portia's glasses, sprain her ankle and now he's forced to go into business with the Valentines. Nobody messes with the Valentines. They know where bodies are buried. Hey! This is New Jersey. In spite of this or maybe because Liberty Heights works its magic and romance rules. Watch out for Elmo the Alaskan Malamute. He might eat your shoes!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elle Druskin
• Release date: Sep 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201237165

Book preview

Elle Druskin has done it again! Just when I thought nothing else could possibly surprise me in Liberty Heights along comes another adventure. I love this zany town full of quirky residents and I love how quickly outsiders become part of the crazy so easily. I enjoyed catching up with so many old friends from previous stories and meeting some fabulous new residents. Poor Portia seemed like she'd been transported to a whole new world and even though I felt sorry for her I enjoyed watching her cope with all the zaniness. Truman is a truly nice man, it seems like such an dull word but he is the nice guy every woman dreams of. If you are looking for a fun break from the everyday and enjoy some laugh-out-loud fun with your stories this is definitely one to read. If you haven't taken a trip to Liberty Heights yet I'd highly recommend stopping by.

Literary Agent Portia Hart needs to disappear from an insistent stalker so she heads to Liberty Heights to work with her latest client because there is no way a crazy writer is going to derail her career. But soon she finds herself surrounded by a whole new bunch of crazies, albeit manly harmless. Unless you count Truman Wilder who wrecked her eyeglasses and contributed to her sprained ankle. Now she's dealing with the well-meaning but weird Freedbush clan, that includes a delusional Uncle who believes he is Ernest Hemingway and romance rules once again in the picture postcard perfect town.

Night Owl Romance Reviews Wait Watchers

https://www.nightowlreviews.com/v5/Reviews/Paulinemichael-reviews-Wait-Watchers-by-Elle-Druskin

Wait Watchers © by Elle Druskin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Acknowledgements

The list of people to thank for their devotion to all things Liberty Heights keep growing and I’m grateful to all of them. As always, a huge thank you to Trudi Hagen, Crys Raffuse and Ellen Lager, faithful beta readers who read the manuscript before submission. They point out flaws, raise questions, provide constructive criticism and ultimately help produce a better and tighter story. Thanks to all of you!

A huge shout out to the street team who have read the books and give honest opinions of stories and characters. I’m glad I’ve been able to give you a laugh; we need to smile and laugh at least once in a while. Liberty Heights is like dessert; we probably shouldn’t indulge in treats all the time but that makes them all the more enjoyable when we can. Thank you to Allie Atkinson, Emily Hackworth, Ellen Lager, Linda Shields, Sandy Siller, Rachel Spector and Rachel Whitehouse.

I’m truly grateful to lots of people at the Books and Writers Community. You cannot know how delighted I am to see you enjoy and discuss the books. It’s especially gratifying when a reader who normally wouldn’t consider a romance novel takes the time to tell me how much fun it is to read the series. Deepest thanks to Amarilis, Amy, Eve, Jo, Nancy, Juney, Zan Marie, Bev, Lynne, Connie, and Beth. I hope I haven’t forgotten anyone. You cannot know how thrilled I am that you all enjoy Liberty Heights so much.

I hope you’ll enjoy Wait Watchers and continue to laugh.

Wait Watchers

The Liberty Heights Series

Animal Crackers

Life of the Party

Hanky Panky

Light My Fire

Rodeo Daze

Adams and Eve

Pranksgiving

Wait Watchers

Elle Druskin

Chapter One

Portia Hart stepped down from the bus and glanced at Main Street. Mountain range sized snowdrifts piled along the curb, the streets freshly cleared from the most recent blizzard. She stared at the railway tracks cutting through the town center.

I could kill that stupid Isabella, Portia muttered. This was all her fault.

Exiled to New Jersey. Like a modern day fairy tale, only she was no princess in a tower. And there was no hero riding up to rescue her.

Banished from New York. Good God! What else could go wrong?

Portia blinked and hoped when she opened her eyes she’d be transported back to Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. Fat chance. She opened her eyes, but nothing changed. She was still in Liberty Heights, which looked like a set from a fifties television show.

Good grief. It was freezing. So cold, her eyeglasses fogged and she couldn’t see a darned thing. She groped for her suitcases, struggling with the laptop slung over her shoulder. Without warning, one foot skidded on a patch of ice. She teetered. Her arms windmilled in a futile attempt to prevent the inevitable. She failed. Portia crash-landed smack on her ass. Her legs spread-eagled, and her eyeglasses headed south somewhere near one of the suitcases. At least, she thought so.

Great, a sore backside and I’m blind.

Ma’am, are you okay?

She glanced up in the direction of the male voice.

Ma’am. It sounded elderly. Probably some teenager who thought he was rescuing an old lady. A boy scout.

* * * *

Ouch! What a tumble.

That must have hurt.

Truman Wilder crouched beside the woman, bundled in a heavy white coat and a close-fitting hat with fur trim. For some crazy reason her appearance brought to mind the heroine in Dr. Zhivago. Heck, the weather was certainly Siberian.

Myopic silvery eyes blinked up at him. Chill reddened cheeks and a patrician nose matched the color of her leather gloves and handbag. You okay? That was quite a spill, he said.

Aw nuts. A tear trickled down her cheek. Maybe she was hurt. Possibly her eyes were tearing from the cold. Either way, he’d better try to help her up.

Truman rose, careful to avoid the slick ice patch. He righted the suitcases and extended a hand. Gloved fingers laced with his own. The woman boosted on one knee, stood up and skidded on the ice. Truman fought for balance as she slammed into a snowdrift. Their hands still linked and he slipped, slid, and landed splat on top of her in the snow mound.

* * * *

Wasn’t this terrific? Injured. Practically blind. Now she was half buried in a snow mound with a guy plastered on top of her. A navy beanie covered his hair, but his face was close enough for her to sniff the citrusy scent of his freshly shaved cheeks. Chocolate eyes widened in shock. Fine lines etched the eyes. This guy must be close to her age which edged frighteningly close to forty.

Any broken bones?

Portia turned in the direction of another male voice. Great. She prided herself on a dignified persona. Controlled. Poised. Unfortunately, dignity seemed to have flown out the window. To make matters worse, now there was an audience to this ridiculous spectacle.

There you are. We’ve been watching for the bus.

Portia didn’t need her glasses to identify the second speaker. Renee Landis. Her client. Didn’t this look terrific? How unprofessional could she get? Stuck in a snowdrift, with a strange guy lying on top of her in a far too suggestive posture.

She tried to dredge up an imposing expression although it seemed utterly absurd under the circumstances.

Hey Truman! I thought it was you. Heard from your mom you were coming back.

A tall dark-haired guy bent closer and addressed her clumsy erstwhile rescuer. Truman. Unusual name. Then again, hers was less than common. Portia. She loathed the name.

Truman rolled off her body with a grace that Portia envied. She squinted as the two men shook hands, slapped backs, and went through all the usual male bonding greetings.

Renee squatted beside Portia who ignored the outstretched hand. Instead, she scrambled up and teetered on her feet. She couldn’t prevent a wince. Darn it all. Her ankle throbbed. Pain shot up her leg. She forced her weight on the foot and groaned.

Hey, you’re really in pain. You must have twisted that ankle, Truman said. Concern dripped from his voice. He slipped an arm around her waist and unable to fight the agony, Portia slumped against him.

Irritation battled with pain. This simply wouldn’t do. She was an independent woman who had learned the hard way never to rely on a man. For anything.

Gritting her teeth, Portia shifted her weight and leaned away from Truman. She held her breath.

Not so bad, she muttered. She toed the foot onto the pavement.

Youch! An electric current of pain zapped her ankle.

That’s it. Off the foot.

Before she could object, Truman scooped her up in his arms.

Hey! Cut it out! I demand you put me down, Portia screeched.

Nobody paid the slightest bit of attention to her protests.

My car is across the street. I’m not sure how to fit all the luggage in the trunk. It’s kind of small, said Renee. She pointed to a compact vehicle. At least, it looked small. So hard to gauge anything without the glasses.

Better use mine. I’ve got a van. Besides, it’s closer and bigger, Truman said.

I’m perfectly capable of walking to the car, Portia insisted.

Suit yourself.

Truman dumped her onto the pavement. Portia bit her lip. She lifted one foot and took a step. There! Nothing to it. Everyone made a big fuss over nothing. She lifted the injured foot and yelped.

Okay Supergirl, that’s it, Truman said.

Portia started to argue and gave up. Her ankle throbbed. Red hot fingers of pain knifed her foot. There was no way she could walk to the hotel and drag her luggage too. Heck, she couldn’t even walk a few steps down the block to the van.

She glared at Truman certain somehow it was his fault she’d injured her ankle.

What would her father, the hotshot Marine colonel say? Tough it out. Don’t be a wimp. Sure. Except she couldn’t walk on the darned foot no matter how she tried to ignore the agony.

Glass crunched, and Portia groaned. Now what? How was it possible for this day to get worse? What was wrong with this town? Or maybe it was her.

Truman stooped and fished around in the snow. A pair of spectacles with one smashed lens and a cracked frame dangled in front of her face. Her glasses. This Truman guy must be a bad luck charm. First her ankle, and then her glasses. What else could he do to worsen her predicament?

Sorry about that, Truman mumbled.

Portia fumed. Isn’t this great? This town must have a bad luck force field.

Hey, it was an accident, Truman retorted. You must have a spare pair, right?

Portia glared at him. His features were somewhat fuzzy but she thought his expression appeared contrite. It was hard to tell.

Remorse flooded her center. She was in a foul mood but that didn’t excuse lashing out at this guy who only offered to help. Besides, there was a spare pair of glasses in her luggage. Aw nuts. Was there? She’d been in such a rush to pack, maybe she’d forgotten them. After all, it wasn’t like she expected to be in Liberty Heights more than one or two days. She had no intention of rifling through her bag in front of her audience.

* * * *

Truman hesitated, and then moved toward Portia. His hands stretched around her knees and shoulders as if preparing to lift her again.

No! You already injured my ankle and murdered my glasses, Portia shrieked.

Good God! She sounded like a shrew, but she was fed up to the eyeballs with Liberty Heights and especially this guy. His intentions might be kind, but he was a walking disaster as far as she was concerned.

Truman and the strange guy exchanged glances, and then the other man lifted her in his arms and cradled her against his chest.

I’ll get the bags, Truman offered.

This is an unusual way to make introductions, but this is Truman Wilder and Bud Resnick. Bud is Zach’s brother. I know you’re not Zach’s agent, but you know him from the agency, Renee explained. This is Ms. Portia Hart, my literary agent.

Always happy to help a lady in distress, Bud said. Especially, when your agency makes so much money for my brother.

He winked, and Portia squirmed. She’d never felt so helpless and dumb in her life. Like some idiotic heroine in a romance novel. Good thing her father couldn’t see this. He’d freak out. At least, she would only be in Liberty Heights for a few days. Maybe less. Besides, who cared what anyone thought of her in this town?

Bud strode down the street and stopped in front of a van.

I figured this was yours. Still have the Illinois plates, Bud said.

Yep. Got in last night. Truman panted from the effort of toting the suitcases. Puffy clouds floated in front of his face. Renee hefted the laptop and unlocked the doors.

Bud lowered Portia onto the backseat. A toxic cloud of stale takeaway smells permeated the van. Her nose wrinkled in disgust.

Truman reached inside and swept a pile of Styrofoam containers and food wrappers under the seat.

We drove straight through without stopping. Ate on the way, he said.

Renee slipped in beside her while the two men loaded the luggage in the rear.

Where’s this hotel? Portia asked.

Renee lowered her gaze. Portia squinted but couldn’t read Renee’s expression. Truman hopped into the driver’s seat. Bud perched on the passenger side.

I’d better come and help with the luggage, Bud said.

The hotel, Portia repeated. Where is it?

Hotel? Since when is there a hotel in Liberty Heights? Truman asked. He started the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

Not exactly a hotel, Renee muttered.

Portia’s jitters hit an all time high. Not exactly a hotel. What did that mean?

Are we going to a motel? she asked.

Bud glanced over his shoulder and snickered. One guess, he said. A wide grin spread on his lips. LouAnn.

Bud turned around but not before he guffawed. Portia squinted at Renee who turned to peer out the window. She was certain Renee deliberately avoided eye contact. A shudder ran up Portia’s spine. Something fishy was going on.

What exactly is LouAnn’s? A motel? A hostel? It sounds like a western honky-tonk.

Nobody replied. Portia’s annoyance inched up another notch. For all she knew, LouAnn’s was the local bordello.

It’s the best I could do on such short notice, Renee whispered.

Turn left, Bud directed Truman. You must remember LouAnn Freedbush and her sister BettyAnn. LouAnn was in our class.

Truman nodded. The Freedbush sisters are kind of hard to forget.

Turn left again and follow the street until we get to the house next to the cemetery, Bud said. BettyAnn’s a registered witch according to her sister. Wait’ll you meet her boyfriend. He’s practicing to be a vampire.

"Why am I not surprised? Truman answered.

A registered witch. A vampire. Next to the cemetery. What the heck is this place? Portia screeched.

Nobody responded. All three acted as if this was an everyday occurrence. Portia slumped against the seat. Good grief! She’d landed in the middle of the world’s largest psychiatric outpatient clinic. Either that or the pain from her ankle re-routed to her brain, and she was delirious. Neither was a cheery option.

Can’t wait for you to meet Wayne, Bud said.

Portia didn’t miss the tone of amusement in his voice. She didn’t have the nerve to inquire about Wayne. Maybe he was the vampire.

Truman parked in front a large white house complete with a veranda and columns like a Southern plantation. A hand-lettered banner in bright purple writing decorated the second story of the home. Even without her glasses, Portia had no difficulty reading the sign. The letters were enormous although somewhat lopsided.

GRAND OPENING! WE ALSO WELCOME PETS.

The front door banged open, and an enormous man strode down the neatly shoveled path. Bud rolled down the window.

Special delivery, Bud said. Brought your guest.

We’ve been expecting you for hours, the huge man said. Perfect timing. We’re still a little disorganized around here what it being our grand opening.

The guy opened the door and leaned closer. Holy cow! Even without her glasses, there was no mistaking the guy’s features. Frankenstein grinned at her. He bowed and waved one monster-sized hand.Welcome to the Valentine’s Day Massacre Bed and Breakfast. This is your lucky day since you’re our very first guest. Loads of perks.

Portia whimpered. What in the name of God had she gotten herself into?

Chapter Two

Truman leaned over from the driver’s seat and studied Portia’s expression. Undoubtedly, Ms. Hart had an incredible run of bad luck. Her cranky attitude all but screamed at him. Royally pissed off at him would be a mild way of putting it.

He couldn’t blame her. A twisted ankle. Maybe sprained. Broken eyeglasses, thanks to him. A flush crept up his face. It was obvious she couldn’t see a darned thing without them. For the piéce de resistance, for reasons unknown, Portia was the official first guest at LouAnn’s bed and breakfast. Ten minutes in the company of the Freedbush sisters and Portia would be a screaming loony. Poor thing.

Nobody missed Portia’s horrified expression as the Frankenstein lookalike leaned into the car. Like a movie camera zooming in for the close up shot in a horror movie. Portia quivered at the sight of his startling features, complete with the forehead scar.

Cold? he asked. Don’t worry. We turned the heat up full blast.

If anything, Portia’s shivers increased.

Ms. Hart’s been injured, Truman said.

Injury? No blood, I hope. Blood makes me faint. I’m thinking maybe it’s an allergic reaction, the monster said.

Portia’s face blanched. Good thing, considering the monster’s remarks.

Probably an ankle sprain. No blood for you to worry about Simon, Bud commented.

Frankenstein visibly relaxed.

That’s good. We’ve got a pair of crutches around here somewhere.

The ghoul hurried back to the house and returned with the crutches. A crowd of people poured out the front door.

Holy cow! There was BettyAnn Freedbush, the alleged witch, and her nutty sister. A beagle trailed beside them, growling and yipping. Several other people Truman didn’t recognize shadowed