It's A Sweet Life Part 1

IT'S A SWEET LIFE.

Coffeeshop Coven Prequel.

Tymber Dalton.

Libbie Addams has a mortgage on her struggling bakery, no love life, no health insurance...and fibromyalgia. She's worried about making ends meet when two hunks show up to rent her extra apartment. Not only do cousins Ken Dougherty and Charles Stackhouse make her money worries disappear, they offer to help out in their spare time.

They also make her panties damp. Too bad they're gay, but they're great eye candy.

The men have a secret-they're not gay cousins. They're twin brothers hiding from a vengeful mob boss. Charles is Allan Donohue, a prosecutor with the State Attorney's office in Miami. Benjamin Donohue is the undercover detective who helped break the case wide open. Now they're marked for death.

They hope their ruse can keep them, and Libbie, safe. Because now that they've fallen in love with the delicious baker, they'll never let her go. But when vengeance comes calling, will they ever get to enjoy their sweet life together?

Note: There is no s.e.xual relations.h.i.+p or touching for t.i.tillation between or among siblings.

DEDICATION.

To Hubby, for all the love and patience and support he's given me throughout the years while helping me through life's ups and downs. And to Mr. B, especially the patience part.

To Cooper McKenzie, my bud, and whose name I threw around in vain (in a good way) in this book. And to fellow hooker (no, not THAT kind of hooker, the kind that plays with yarn) Mia Downing. (No, I won't put the "b.i.t.c.h" in all caps. Sorry. LOL *HUGS*) Special thanks to my friend Christine for bakery questions. Any errors are mine, not hers. (And I'll blame errors on fibro fog. LOL).

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

As some of you already know, I am a member of the fibromyalgia "club." With a dual diagnosis of chronic fatigue syndrome on top of that, and arthritis to boot, it can sometimes make life...interesting. I didn't have to stretch my imagination far to write the health issues the heroine in this tale goes through. I simply wrote from my own experiences, sometimes at the same time while I was writing this book.

It's very hard to describe how frustrating it is to go from being someone who could easily pull an all-nighter, a "get s.h.i.+t done" kind of gal, to someone who, on some days, feels like they can barely get out of bed. I don't "look" sick. And yes, I have plenty of good days, fortunately. But there are the days where simply walking through the grocery store can put me back to bed for the rest of the day.

Or suffering through bouts of "word salad" that sometimes accompany the condition called fibro fog, leaving me grasping for a word I know I should know and unable to think of it. Hubby and I even have a system where if I get stuck, he waits to start tossing words at me until I start pantomiming and gesturing at him that I'm really and truly stuck. Sometimes, a well-meaning person trying to help can make the issue worse as my frustration grows if they try to offer me words too soon when I'm still struggling to put a sentence together.

As you can imagine, that can be a particularly vexing symptom for a writer who makes their living slinging words. Fortunately, it seems to happen most verbally and not when I'm actually sitting at my laptop. Although I do keep my trusty Roget's Thesaurus close at hand for when I'm at a loss for a word. In the writing of this ma.n.u.script, it took me three different searches to finally remember the word I wanted to use in the Walmart scene was "dysfunctional." (Yes, there is a certain irony to that which I can appreciate all too well.) I'm not looking for sympathy, and neither are most sufferers of this condition. I know I'm lucky to have an incredible support system combined with a job that allows me to sit at home in my pj's all day. And it's not any more terminal a condition than life already is to start with. But what I, and other fibro patients, are usually looking for is patience and understanding. That it's not in our heads. That we're not lazy or trying to get out of doing things. That putting others before ourselves can, literally, be hazardous to our health in some cases. That we might need to beg off plans at the last minute even though we don't "look sick" because our energy plug got yanked out of the wall on us. And while we might have been in great shape the day before (or even the morning of) an event, that doesn't mean fibro won't wave its wand and put us on our a.s.s in the s.p.a.ce of a few minutes. That instead of belittling us for what someone might perceive as laziness you offer an understanding ear and not try to guilt us into doing something we will pay for later in terms of our "spoon usage."

Yes, believe me, it frustrates the c.r.a.p out of us, too. Most of us would give anything to be able to get to our pre-fibro (or pre-whatever) energy levels.

What are spoons? Please take the time to read "The Spoon Theory" by Christine Miserandino. It applies not only to fibromyalgia patients, but anyone with a chronic condition or disability that saps strength and energy.

(http://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/) If you feel you might have fibromyalgia, please do your research and talk with your health care provider regarding treatment options. Pain, fibro fog, and fatigue are just some of the most common symptoms of this complex disorder. There are various regimens, both prescription and homeopathic, that can help relieve some of your symptoms and make life more manageable.

FOREWORD.

This is the prequel to my new Coffeeshop Coven series, centered around the Many Blessings New Age shop. If you want to know more about the backstory of Many Blessings, including what happened to the former owner, Julie, please read my book Out of the Darkness (available from Siren-BookStrand). Related characters also appear in my book Red Tide (Siren-BookStrand).

And there really is such a deck as the Celtic Dragon Tarot. It's published by Llewellyn Publications, and it's the first deck I cut my teeth on. It's a beautiful deck that I highly recommend.

The town of Brooksville, Florida, does exist, although I've taken a little literary license with some of its geography to suit my own purposes.

Chapter One.

Not now. Please, not now.

She slowly rubbed her hands together, wincing over the pain that shot through her knuckles at the motion. Experience told her even soaking them in warm water wouldn't completely soothe the pain and stiffness away when they felt like this.

It was seven o'clock Thursday evening. With only half of the Palmer wedding order finished, she still had a good six hours of work ahead of her to have everything ready for Friday morning pickup as ordered.

Six hours if I'm lucky.

She burst into tears as she stared at the table full of cupcakes awaiting finis.h.i.+ng touches. If she didn't deliver this job on time, or if she delivered it subpar, the well-connected Palmer family could ruin her reputation and the small bakery, It's a Sweet Life, that she'd struggled so hard to build.

LacieBelle Addams-Libbie to her friends and family-leaned against the large stainless double fridge and slid down it with her hands cradled in her lap and wrapped in her flour-covered ap.r.o.n. The pain was the worst it had been in months.

That was where she still sat ten minutes later when Grover Johnson, her part-time helper and lifelong friend, came in and found her.

Tsking as he shook his head, the large black man walked over to her and slowly lowered his considerable bulk to the floor next to her. He wrapped a meaty arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. "Lord, child. Don't you think it's 'bout time you went to see Doc Smith?"

She settled her head into his lap, her tears renewing. "I can't, Grover. I don't have the money or the time."

"But you have the time to sit here crying your poor eyes out?"

Grover had been a close friend of her father's since before she was born, coworkers during the tumultuous days of the civil rights movement of the 60s before opening a law firm together. It didn't matter that she'd been a white girl. Grover and his wife, Connie, had always welcomed her into their large family of eight kids despite snide comments the families received from people of both races. The man was like a second father to her.

With her own parents dead, Grover and his kids were the only family she had. Connie had pa.s.sed almost four years earlier after a stroke, right after Libbie had turned thirty-one.

He carefully clasped her hands in his large ones, enveloping them in a tender grip. "I think it's time for you to consider selling out to Katie Beasley," he gently said. "She made you a generous offer last month."

"No. I won't do that. I have to make this work. Everything I have is tied up in the building and the bakery."

"Then at least get you some good help in here besides my tired, sorry ole a.s.s. Jenny's a sweet kid, but you and I both know she's a few french fries short of a Happy Meal. Not to mention she can't bake worth a darn. And Ruth is a good woman, but she's retired and you need someone who can work more than part time for you."

That made her chuckle. Ruth Callahan only worked mornings and the occasional special order, and usually left once the bulk of the day's baking was finished. Jenny Millings helped out several mornings a week. She ran the counter for Libbie in exchange for cash under the table and day-old leftovers. She had a part-time job at a convenience store in the afternoons while her two young sons were still in school. It barely helped her pay rent and expenses for her and her kids. She couldn't afford child care, so she couldn't work in the evenings. Besides that, her younger son was autistic.

Her ex-husband had been in jail for over two years for a drug charge and obviously wasn't paying child support.

If looking at anyone's life could make Libbie feel remotely better about her own situation, it was Jenny's.

Libbie sniffled and looked up at Grover. "Your a.s.s isn't sorry. You've been a lifesaver."

"Glad you and my Connie think so, honey." He brushed her brown bangs away from her face. "I had another idea, if you'd like to hear it."

She nodded.

"You've got that smaller apartment upstairs. It's just sitting there gathering dust. Let me get the boys in here to help you clear out all the furniture and those boxes of your folks' stuff, and you rent it out. You can put the stuff in my shed. I've got the room because I don't park in there no more."

"How's that supposed to help me?" She held up her hands. "That won't help me get this order out."

"I'm gonna help you get this order out. But you could use the money you get from rent to pay for someone else to work in here during the day to help you out. Or have the renter work for you part time in exchange for lower rent."

Grover, bless his heart, shouldn't even be working. He was retired, and had certainly earned it. She couldn't afford to pay him, not that he would take money from her if she could afford to pay him. But on days like this, when cool, late-October autumn days made most people cheerfully start thinking about the upcoming holiday season, Libbie started counting the days until summer hit Brooksville, Florida, again.

The hot, moist summer heat was one of the few things that brought her relief from the sometimes severe pain of her fibromyalgia and arthritis. But the frequent cold fronts that swept through the area in winter played h.e.l.l with her pain levels.

"You really think I could rent it out?"

He smiled. "I've already arranged for my boys to be here bright and early Sat.u.r.day morning. Tommy's going to bring his truck, and Jimmy's going to bring two friends. All they asked in exchange is for you to whip up some of your red velvet cakes."

She buried her face against his shoulder, holding back her tears. "Thank you. You don't know how much I appreciate this."

"Honey, you're family. You know dang well if Connie were here she'd already have that upstairs cleaned out and ready to go."

Libbie snorted with laughter again. "Yeah, I know."

Only because of Grover's help was the Palmer order finished, boxed, and ready for the scheduled morning pickup by one o'clock in the morning. Libbie debated not even going to bed and just staying up to start the morning baking, but Grover nixed that idea.

"You get your b.u.t.t upstairs and sit in a hot bath for a while and get some sleep. I'll be back at four to help you and Ruth get the daily stuff going." He only lived a few minutes away.

She hugged him, struggling to hold back another round of grateful tears. "Thanks."

He kissed the top of her head, just like he used to do when she was a kid. "No worries, sugar. You grab some winks. We'll get the morning stuff out the door and you can take a nap later while me and Jenny mind the store."

Libbie didn't argue. She locked the back door behind him and slowly climbed the stairs leading to the apartments. When she opened the door to her apartment, Galileo, her huge orange tabby cat, greeted her with a loud meow of disapproval from the back of the couch.

She flipped him a bird. "I'm not in a mood for your 'tude tonight, buddy."

He jumped off the couch and followed her into the kitchen. There, he twined himself around her legs while she made a cup of hot tea to take into the bath with her. His loud purring filled the otherwise silent kitchen.

Libbie leaned over and picked him up. "You know mommy doesn't feel good, don't you?" Usually Galileo acted standoffish and grouchy, unless it was bedtime, dinnertime, or he seemed to sense she felt awful.

And other than her, he hated everyone but Grover. She'd rescued the cat as a young, skinny tom when he was a few weeks old and barely weaned.

Grover joked that if someone had cut his nuts off, he'd be grouchy, too.

The cat rubbed his head against her chin for a minute while she waited for her water to heat in the microwave. When it was ready, she set the cat down and fixed her tea. Galileo followed her into the bathroom and sat staring at her while she undressed and climbed into a tubful of warm water.

When she was comfortable, he put his front paws up on the side of the tub and meowed at her.

"I won't drown, don't worry. You'll get your breakfast in the morning."

Apparently satisfied by that response, he left the bathroom and headed to the bedroom to wait for her.

Libbie wrapped her hands around her mug and carefully sipped. The heat soaked through her hands, helping soothe the agony a little. If I can just hang on through winter, I know I can make it. s...o...b..rds from up north had started returning to Brooksville, bringing their money with them. Which meant social clubs and churches would be holding their winter events. Restaurants would get busy, and the ones that ordered specialty desserts from her would increase their orders.

Many Blessings, the local New Age store with an in-house coffeeshop, had already doubled their daily orders.

While by not a lot, her daily store sales were also slowly beginning to increase and outpace her expenses. She didn't have to rely on special orders to make ends meet anymore.

She looked around at the bathroom. When she divorced her ex, she'd moved back home a few months before her parents died in a wreck eight years prior. After they died, she enrolled in culinary school and used the insurance money to help pay bills and tuition. Upon completing school, she spent a couple of years working at various restaurants and catering businesses in the Tampa Bay area until she had enough training and practical experience to open her own business.

The building's previous owner, an attorney, had lived in the larger apartment, rented the smaller one out, and used the bottom floor as his law office. When Libbie bought the building two years earlier, she'd emptied her parents' house and sold it to make the down payment and help pay for equipment.

Her dream come true, to own her own bakery.

So what if she didn't have any kind of a social life? She'd proved her cheating a.s.s of an ex wrong, that she could do whatever she set her mind to. That she wasn't worthless.

That she wasn't a burden, even with her fibro.

Sinking a little lower in the tub, she took another sip of her tea and prayed for the pain to ease up.

Chapter Two.

Libbie slumped into her office chair and breathed a sigh of relief. A little after nine o'clock in the morning, and Karen Palmer, mother of the bride, had just picked up their order. It didn't hurt the woman was tickled to death with the results. And she took a handful of business cards with her to hand out to her friends. She was so pleased in fact that she placed a large order for her ladies' church group, for pickup next Wednesday afternoon.

A hundred large cupcakes, four different varieties, decorated. Plus three red velvet cakes, two sour cream pound cakes, and a carrot cake.

She'd paid the order in full in advance so she could send someone else to pick it up for her.

Yay. I can pay Jenny today instead of on Tuesday after all the Friday checks clear. Karen Palmer wouldn't stiff her and write a bad check. And the young mom would no doubt appreciate the early payday with her food stamps not paying out for nearly a week. Jenny never asked for an advance on her pay, but Libbie saw how the woman struggled this time of the month, every month, making sure her kids had good food while she sometimes subsisted on day-olds Libbie gave her to take home.

Grover leaned against the office doorway. "You okay, sugar?"

Libbie nodded. "Exhausted. How are you?" Out in the shop, she heard the bell jingle as someone entered, followed by Jenny's cheerful voice as she greeted them. Back in the kitchen, Ruth had the giant mixer running as she put together the basics of a cake order going out the next day. Ruth didn't do the special decorating. That fell on Libbie's shoulders. But the older woman had a special touch with even the fussiest recipes and rarely ruined anything.