Bluegrass Blessings

Bluegrass Blessings
Allie Pleiter

Everyone in Middleburg, Kentucky, lines up for baker Dinah Hopkins's cinnamon rolls.Everyone except her handsome new landlord, Cameron Rollings. The jaded city man doesn't like anything about small-town life–from the fresh air to her fresh-baked snickerdoodles. And he clearly considers Dinah as quirky as her eccentric oven.The way to Cameron's heart is not through his toned stomach. But the Lord led him to Kentucky Corners for a reason. And Dinah plans to help him count his bluegrass blessings.

“Well, as I see it, my oven is your problem.”

It was becoming a struggle to remain civil about being roused out of bed by a flame-haired, loud-mouthed tornado in the middle of the night. “Not according to my paperwork. And believe me, Miss Hopkins, I read my paperwork.”

“Well, if I can’t open my bakery, I can’t earn money. And if I can’t earn money, then I can’t pay my rent. So, unless you want to start off the year badly, I reckon it is your problem.”

The Southern phraseology in her East Coast accent was just absurd. He glared at her. “Exactly what part of New Jersey are you from?”

That stopped her. “Exactly how much do you know about me?”

Exactly too much. And none of it prepared him for this. “I’m going back to bed now.”

“By all means. I won’t need any supervision from you. I’ll just slip in and slip out, moving batches in and out of your oven. You’ll never even know I’m there.”

Oh, he doubted that.

ALLIE PLEITER

Enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, RITA

Award finalist Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and nonfiction. An avid knitter and unreformed chocoholic, she spends her days writing books, drinking coffee and finding new ways to avoid housework. Allie grew up in Connecticut, holds a BS in Speech from Northwestern University, spent fifteen years in the field of professional fundraising. She lives with her husband, children and a Havanese dog named Bella in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois.

Bluegrass Blessings

Allie Pleiter

See, the former things have taken place,

and new things I declare; before they

spring into being I announce them to you.

—Isaiah 42:9

For Jeff

And he knows why

Acknowledgments

Every author needs the right ingredients to cook up the perfect novel. Attorney Donna Craft Cain helped me get the legal details in order, while Dr. Caroline Wolfe made sure the medical facts were in correct. If I could send Cookiegrams of my own, they’d go out to my husband, children, editor Krista Stroever and agent Karen Solem for their ongoing support. I’m well aware that living with an author—professionally or personally—is no piece of cake. Especially this author. And lastly, I’d be nowhere without the astounding guidance of my Lord and the amazing support of the readers who’ve made Middleburg one of their favorite places to visit. You’re great blessings, one and all.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Discussion Questions

Chapter One

“You can’t do this.” Dinah Hopkins glared mercilessly at the oven knobs. “I own you. You work for me and insubordination of any kind will not be permitted. Capiche?”

Her New York mobster impersonation failed to impress, for the pilot light still stared at her with one blue, unblinking eye. For lack of a better solution, she whacked the side of the cold oven with her rolling pin. Whacked. That was a gangster term, right?

“Whacked, as in end of life. As in light this minute or it’s the end of my life, buster.” Dinah fiddled with another knob or two, which had worked last week to get the fickle thing started, and checked the gas connection. “All’s well, you iron beast, you’ve got gas and flame but what I need is heat. So heat. I can’t exactly run a bakery with a microwave. Bakeries have ovens. Nice, obedient, toasty ovens.”