KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!

 

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FINDING LOVE AT THE COUNTY FAIR
Sweet Romance Collections
BY BECKY MUTH

BLURB

Step into a world of lemonade stands, moonlit hayrides, and once-in-a-lifetime kisses.

The Finding Love at the County Fair series is a heartwarming collection of standalone sweet romances, each set against the nostalgic charm of a small-town fair. From cotton candy and carousel rides to pie contests and late-night music, every story is a celebration of love found in unexpected places.

With relatable characters, cozy settings, and just the right touch of magic, this series invites readers to believe that sometimes, the best love stories begin with a single summer night

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FINDING LOVE AT THE COUNTY FAIR
Sweet Romance Collections
BY BECKY MUTH

Excerpt

I have a little confession…

Late at night, after everyone’s gone to bed, I’ve been sneaking in time to write a secret passion project—short stories set at the county fair. Ever since I read Charlotte’s Web as a kid, I’ve been enchanted by the fair’s lights, laughter, and sense of wonder.

The summer I turned sixteen, I spent an entire week at the fair. My crush noticed me. Like, really noticed me. He held my hand as we wandered the midway, playing games, riding the Ferris wheel, and sharing sticky-sweet bites of candy apples and funnel cake. And at the very top of that Ferris wheel? Well, I’m not one to kiss and tell.

These stories are my way of bottling that end-of-summer magic—the cool breeze after a sun-soaked day, the stars twinkling like fairground lights, and the fireflies dancing in the fields nearby. The collection includes ten heartwarming tales.

Finding Love at the County Fair is available now for pre-order. I hope it brings a little bit of sweet nostalgia—and a whole lot of heart—into your summer reading.

Music Nights & Missed Chances

Clemmie’s clipboard rattled against her hip as she strode toward the loading bay, the sticky note still screaming CANCELED in neon pink. She was mentally scrolling through every local band she’d booked in the past five years, calculating who might answer a desperate 7:03 p.m. phone call, when a single guitar chord—low, resonant, almost lonely—cut through the backstage din.

It stopped her cold.

He sat on an upturned milk crate beside the rollup door, one boot planted on a speaker case, the other leg stretched out as if he had all the time in the world. A battered guitar rested across his lap, wood scuffed to silver at the edges, strings worn thin. The case beside him looked like it had traveled every highway in America—stickers from roadside diners and coffeehouses peeling at the corners, a faint scorch mark near the clasp.

Clemmie cleared her throat. “You’re the guy who offered a miracle?”

He glanced up. Eyes the color of river stone after rain—grey flecked with green—met hers with unnerving steadiness. A faint scar curved through his left eyebrow; another traced the edge of his jaw like a half-remembered melody.

“Depends what kind you need,” he said, voice gravel over honey. “I can fake a set list, but I can’t fake an audience.”

“I need forty-five minutes of music that won’t get me tarred and feathered by the Rotary Club.” She gestured at the chaos behind her. “Headliner’s down. You up for it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead he played another chord, fingers moving with the absent grace of someone who’d forgotten how to be anywhere without a guitar in his hands. The sound reverberated through the aluminum walls, soft but insistent, like rain on a tin roof.

“I can fill the slot,” he said at last. “But I play originals. No covers, no requests for ‘Sweet Caroline.’ Deal?”

Clemmie hesitated. Originals were risky—people wanted songs they could sing along to. But the alternative was canned music and a very angry crowd. She extended her hand. “Deal. I’m Clemmie Monroe, stage coordinator.”

His grip was warm, calloused along the fingertips. “Kieran O’Shea.”

***

Sound check happened in the hush between day and night. The fairgrounds were still assembling: vendors shouting orders, kids darting between game booths, the Ferris wheel testing its neon heartbeat. Kieran stepped onto the main stage alone, guitar slung low, no band, no backing tracks.

Clemmie stood in the wings, headset forgotten, watching him adjust the mic stand with the same reverence she’d once reserved for Grammy’s piano.

He tapped the mic once, a soft thud. “Testing. Can you hear me in the back?”

His voice carried effortlessly, curling through the empty rows of folding chairs, sliding across the midway like smoke. A passing family slowed, parents turning, children quieting.

Kieran closed his eyes. The first note was a single, mournful slide that made the hair on Clemmie’s arms rise. Then came words—soft at first, then gathering strength.

I’ve been building bridges from the wreckage of my dreams

Board by board, nail by nail, learning what forgiveness means…

Clemmie forgot to breathe. The melody was minor-key, aching, but underneath it ran a thread of stubborn hope. She found herself stepping closer, drawn by the rawness in his tone, the way each syllable seemed scraped from somewhere deeper than his ribs.

The song ended on a suspended chord that left the fairgrounds oddly silent, as if even the rides had paused to listen. Kieran opened his eyes, met hers across the distance, and offered the smallest shrug—half apology, half dare.

“Think that’ll work?” he asked.

Clemmie swallowed. “Yeah,” she managed. “That’ll work just fine.”

About Author Becky Muth…

Links to Becky’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:

Amazon Kindle:
https://www.amazon.com/Finding-County-Sweet-Romance-Collections-ebook/dp/B0FGWKJH5P

Learn more at: www.beckymuth.com

Contact link – https://www.beckymuth.com/contact

Happy Reading!