It’s finally here!
I’m kicking off a brand new intrigue/suspense series today with the release of From Indiana, With Love. I’ve brought you a new cast of wacky characters and I hope you’ll like this book. It might take place in a small town, but it’s got big heart.
Blurb: Being embroiled in an FBI sting isn’t exactly conducive for book research or warm fuzzies—or is it?
Samantha Arnold, prep cook and struggling romance novelist, believes adventure is right around the corner. Trouble is, nothing exciting happens in the small town of Newburg, Indiana. When a routine trip to pick up chicken results in meeting a guy too well-dressed to be a farmer, she can’t help but hope things are about to turn.
Special Agent Patton Mitchell isn’t exactly enjoying his stint in the farming community. The property he’s using as a home base adjoins that of his mark, and it also connects him with meek and mild Samantha. Her questionable Internet search history has triggered a visit from the NSA, which means him, and he’s not above a little flirting to get his answers.
Suddenly, small town life explodes into a story right out of Sam’s imagination, with intrigue, guns and betrayal to boot. What she thinks of as a madcap caper is a fight for life or death in Mitchell’s book. Between dodging bullets, chasing a would-be terrorist and dealing with drop-in relatives, there might just be a shot at romance—if the bad guys don’t get them first.
Excerpt: Sam capitulated enough to march down the driveway, but then dug in her heels at her car. She faced him. “I can’t just run to the grocery store.”
“Not my problem.”
She frowned, choosing instead to study him, maybe find some way of breaking the ice. Yeah, he had one of those fancy earpieces. It was made from some sort of clear material so she’d almost missed it. Was there someone listening to their conversation, or was he listening to someone else? A hint of dark stubble clung to his square jaw, and not even a button was out of place on his crisp dress shirt. He had to be sweltering under that suit. Poor thing — not.
“It should be your problem. Angie, the owner of The Café, will probably be out here once I report back with no chicken. Trust me, you don’t want to make her mad. If you thwart her blue-ribbon chicken salad, there’ll be no place you can hide.” When he didn’t answer, merely moved around her, yanked open the back driver’s side door then slid the cooler inside, Sam sighed. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
“No, you just went off. Period.” He slammed the door. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind getting in and going away?”
Maybe the guy was just having a bad day. Maybe he had a headache or had just survived a break-up. It wasn’t for her to judge. Like her Gramma Edie always said: everyone has some sort of problem. Give ‘em a minute to get over it and try connecting again. She overlooked his rude manners and stuck a hand out. “Hi. I’m Samantha Arnold, but most folks call me Sam. It’s easier that way.”
“Easier how? Doesn’t it confuse people if you call yourself Sam?”
“Why? Do I look like a guy to you?” Flutters tickled the inside of her stomach as he moved his gaze leisurely down her body then back up.
“No. There’s no way someone could mistake you for a male.” He stared at her hand then finally took it with a begrudging expression. It softened his face and made him more approachable. If he actually smiled, he’d probably be gorgeous. “I’m Mitchell.” Once he’d given her hand a brisk shake, he dropped it and shoved both of his into his pants pockets.
“Mitchell what?” At such close range, the scent of his cologne had the power to knock her over, all fresh and clean, like being in the middle of a forest surrounded by snow. Geez, buddy, go easy next time.
“Just Mitchell.” His tone didn’t invite further speculation.
“Like Cher or Madonna, huh?” What kind of suit-wearing non-farmer didn’t have a last name?
His expression remained flat. “No. Like plain old, that’s-all-there-is, Mitchell.”
Sam pressed on, her curiosity not letting go. “You don’t have a last name?” Why did she care? After all, he’d chicken gyped her. She should be furious, but something she’d glimpsed deep in his eyes when he’d met her gaze after the once-over intrigued her. The man had so many secrets she’d bet he was nearly bursting from holding them. Maybe he just needed a nice glass of iced tea and a piece of strawberry pie. That always made things better, and Angie made the best pie.
“That is my last name.” A warning sort of growl had entered his voice.
She’d grown up with a grouchy, growly dad so ignoring Mitchell’s bad mood was no big deal. “Then, what’s your first name?”
“Mitchell.” His jaw worked.
A snort escaped her. “Your name is Mitchell Mitchell? Hope your middle name’s not Oliver because then your initials would be MOM.”
“No. Drop it.”
Sam leaned against her car and tried her best to stifle her laughter. Then the humor died when the hot metal seared her skin through the thin cotton of her dress. She jumped forward. Mitchell Mitchell retreated a few steps as if he couldn’t bear the thought of touching her. His name must be pretty bad if he didn’t want to give it out. “Look, I’m trying to make amends and apologize for my earlier behavior. It was rude of me.” She held his gaze. “Why are you being impossible?”
“I’m not. You are, and I have work to do, so if you don’t mind, get back in your car and drive away.”
“But what about my chicken problem? Also, you put trash inside my cooler. What about that?” She couldn’t figure the man out.
A thin sheen of sweat popped on his forehead. Sam ignored it but was secretly vindicated that he wasn’t as invincible to the heat wave as he looked. “Fine.” Mitchell yanked open the car’s back door, slammed up the lid of the cooler then retrieved the fast food bucket. Once he’d closed the cooler as well as the door, he glued his gaze to hers. Slowly, he grabbed the drumstick from the container and equally as slowly brought it to his mouth where he ripped off a hunk of the meat then chewed. “Thanks. It is about time for a snack.”
Sam’s jaw sagged open a bit. She snapped it closed with an audible clink of her teeth. “Grr,” was all she managed to say.
“Growling in unbecoming, Ms. Arnold.” He lifted a bushy eyebrow. “In the car please.” Still eating the drumstick, he leaned around her and opened the driver’s side door. “I’m serious. This farm no longer exists.”
With no other options and her brain forming no other protests, Sam slid into the car. She’d barely pulled her feet inside when he slammed the door. As she sat there, attempting to think of something — anything — to say to this man, he rapped on the window with a knuckle. After starting the engine, Sam hit the button and lowered the window halfway. “Have a change of heart?”
“Nope.” He tossed the bare drumstick into the carton. “Tell your boss if she comes out here, she’ll be trespassing and interfering in FBI business. I won’t hesitate to arrest her. You as well if you decide you want to come back.”
“I…” What did a person say to that? She nodded. “Okay.” When he stood there glaring, she sighed, buckled her seat belt then put the car into gear. “Have a nice day.”
You can buy the book at the following places:
Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/from-indiana-with-love-sandra-sookoo/1119886294?ean=2940149757886
All Romance ebooks: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-fromindianawithlove-1559691-149.html