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A LANCASTER LOVE
An Amish Romance Series
BY MARY LINGERFELT
When her beloved father dies, Eve Miller returns from the English world to her Amish family. She finds that everything has changed, except her childhood sweetheart’s love for her. But her new business partner, a handsome Irish chef, begins to ignite sparks in Eve’s heart. With two very different men vying for her love, Eve has to decide who she is, what she wants, and what she really believes; but to do that, she has to face the traumatic event that once forced her to abandon everyone she loved.
Eve came in, silent as a cat, and sank into a chair. She was wearing a sleeveless blue dress of some silky material, and it rippled over every curve in her long, lean figure. Flynn glanced at her now and then as he worked in the kitchen, letting his gaze flit from the smoothness of her cheek, to the dark wave of her hair, to the delicate curves of her body, down to the long, smooth line of her legs, crossed at the knee. Eve Miller was a beautiful, elegant woman, and for the first time since Maggie died, he felt the familiar rush of hope and fear and anticipation.
The old thrill of pursuit.
All right then, he told himself. No guts, no glory.
He picked out the most luscious éclairs he had, set them on a pale blue plate, and with a dash of whimsy, added a few daisies off to one side. He smiled at Eve over the counter, and came and sat down at her table.
He pushed the plate gently toward her, and was amused to see her eyes light up like Molly’s.
Eve looked at him almost apologetically. “I think I’m addicted to these things,” she confessed. She lifted the éclair reverently, and took a careful bite.
She closed her eyes and raised her brows. “Mmm. You’ve spoiled me, Flynn,” she mumbled, licking her fingers. “I’m ruined for anything else now. These are just so good.”
“I’m glad you like them.”
“Oh―mmmm. Mmm, mmm.” Eve closed her eyes as she ate, and made a sweet, rapturous face that reminded Flynn of something quite different than food. His eyes followed the éclair from her slender fingers, to those plump, pink lips.
Now’s the time, his brain urged him. Ask her to go out to dinner with you tomorrow night.
Eve reached for the next éclair, and he watched it travel from the plate to her mouth. Her teeth were white and even, and her tongue was like pink velvet. Those soft lips closed over the éclair, pursed. She closed her eyes again.
Now’s the time to ask her, his brain insisted. Ask now, while she’s in a good mood!
Flynn watched as Eve put her thumb to her mouth, saw that pink tongue flick out to lick a drop of creamy filling, and then travel along her lips, slowly and luxuriantly.
Flynn opened his mouth to ask, but no sound came out. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from that last bit of éclair, as she lifted it delicately to her lips.
Before he knew what he was doing, his hands shot out and closed over Eve’s wrists. She lifted startled eyes to his, and he leaned over the table and kissed her lips hard, and then soft, and so thoroughly both times that he sucked the éclair filling from her open mouth. Her lips tasted sweetly of orange liqueur, and her mouth was a receding wave of the ocean, smooth as silk.
“Flynn,” she gasped, “what―wait, I can’t think―”
But he put his hands to her face and kissed her lips as gently as he kissed Molly’s cheek at night, and then the edge of her mouth, where her lip curved up, and the sweet spot just under her lower lip. Her murmurs died away underneath his kisses, and to his joy, he felt her yielding. In that moment, Eve was allowing herself to hear what he was saying, to feel what he was feeling. For an instant their lips met and moved in tender communion.
And then―just as quickly―the moment was gone.
Eve turned away, put her hand to her hair in confusion. She tried to say something, failed, and then jumped up from the table like a startled deer.
His eyes followed her in despair. “Eve―”
But she half-ran out of the café, leaving him sitting there with two arms full of air and a burning face.
Flynn clenched his hands in frustration. He was a fool, and he’d done the worst thing possible. Instead of asking her out to dinner, like a man who knew what he was doing, he’d dived at her like some clumsy teenager.
He’d blown his chance, he was sure of it.
What was he thinking, to make a move on Eve at work, in the most public place possible, and where she was sure to be the least receptive?
He pulled his hands over his face. Lord, help me, he prayed. I’ve done what I can’t undo.
A small noise from the kitchen startled him out of his thoughts. He raised his head, and to his horror, Molly was standing there with her coloring book dangling from one open hand. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, and her little mouth formed a perfect O.
Flynn’s heart twisted. He scrambled for something to tell her, some way to explain. But his little daughter recovered before he did.
Molly pressed the coloring book to her chest and regarded him gravely. “Daddy, you need a time out,” she told him solemnly; and then walked over and took his hand.
“Let’s go home.”
I’m a night owl. I find I write best when the house is quiet and still, and I usually don’t get to bed before 2 a.m, I live on tea and chocolate. I am mother to one cat and dozens of very sociable characters, all of whom like to talk to me at inappropriate times. My goal for my stories is that they should be fun reads; but more than that, I hope they show my readers the beauty and satisfaction of a life lived in friendship with God.
Links to Mary’s website, blog, books, etc.
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