Authors: Stu Summers
Fun and clever, with a new twist every few pages that I didn't see coming.
Christy award-winning author of
Stu Summers has swept into the world of publishing like a literary wave. Who is this man? Where is this island he writes from? And, this writer wants to know — is
a memoir, a fictitious romance, or Stu Summers' unique way of poking at the funny bone of the romance publishing industry? Whatever the answer, Summers' Love will keep you riveted and make you laugh. But ... keep a tissue close by. With Summers' work, you just never know.
Eva Marie Everson
Best-selling & Award-winning Author
A hoot, laced with truth, romance, and sailing! What could be better?
Sailing out of Darkness
When I read that Stu Summers had written himself — or his name — into
, I frankly didn't know quite what to expect. Still, I read on. His humor and a delightful story drew me. Then came the twist I didn't expect. And so much more.
is definitely not your normal romance. It's a love story at its best. One with a perfect ending. If you like romance, you will definitely love
. Novel Rocket and I give it a high recommendation.
President, Novel Rocket, www.novelrocket.com
* * *
I hope you enjoy
If you do, I would be grateful if you would write a brief review on
. Love it - hate it? Either way I would appreciate your comments on
. Reviews are helpful to readers. They can also help a book's sales ranking. Either way, thanks for purchasing
and spending time with me." ~ Stu Summers
SUMMERS’ LOVE, A CUTE AND FUNNY CINDERELLA LOVE STORY by Stu Summers
Published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas
2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC 27614
Copyright © 2014 by Stu Summers
Cover design by Ted Ruybals, www.wisdomhousebooks.com
Interior design by Thomas White
Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at: lighthousepublishingofthecarolinas.com
For more information on this book and the author visit:
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “Summers’ Love, A Cute and Funny Cinderella Love Story by Stu Summers published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Summers’ Love, A Cute and Funny Cinderella Love Story / Stu Summers 1st ed.
Kate Winston unlocked the front door of her condo and stepped into the tiny foyer. Sitting in traffic for nearly an hour in the parking lot that passed for Washington’s Beltway had left her drained, cranky, and seriously contemplating a dramatic lifestyle change—one that involved relocating to an island with tiny umbrellas in her drinks, a bungalow by a beach, and a personal pedicurist with really soft hands. Because, honestly, what’s the point of the perfect tan if your nails look as though they were trimmed with a hedge clipper?
With the door remaining partially open behind her, Kate tossed her keys into a porcelain bowl on the credenza and began sorting through her mail. When the tips of her fingernails grazed the notice from her landlord, prickles ran from the crown of her head to her shoulders. No need to look inside and read the fine print. The writing was on the wall. As in
on Wall Street.
As in bad financial advice. As in don’t date your investment advisor when he has his hands on your portfolio and … other personal assets.
The notice was her third in six weeks. Not good. Not good at all.
She stood with her back to the hallway and wondered if she should open the envelope. Maybe they were giving her an extension. On the other hand, if she filed the notice in the wastebasket under the credenza she could honestly say that she never read her landlord's latest correspondence. Before she could make up her mind she saw movement out of the corner of her eye.
But not fast enough.
The man rushed her, shoving Kate face-first into the wall and sending a precious piece of crockery crashing onto the Persian rug. A pair of sinewy arms reached around and pinned Kate’s hands to her sides. “Relax,” he growled, “this’ll be fun.” But there was nothing fun about his sweaty face on her neck or the cigarettes on his breath. Kate’s heart slammed against the walls of her chest; her eyes darted about, searching the foyer for a way out. In a rage of panic she felt along the top of the credenza until her hand located her handbag.
She plunged her fist inside and rooted around until her fingers curled around the stun gun’s handle. She pressed the gun’s stub nose against the man’s thigh, and squeezed the trigger.
Bolts of electricity flashed; sparks crackled. For several seconds the assailant shook uncontrollably, his heels bouncing on hardwood flooring as the voltage shot through his body. An acrid odor, like burning wires, filled the foyer. The pressure she’d felt around her chest lessoned. Kate released the trigger and broke free.
The assailant collapsed into a heap at her feet.
Kate backed away and studied the man. Black tee shirt, faded jeans, dirty sneakers. Stubble on his chin. His stringy brown hair fell across his face, shielding his eyes.
She calmly raised the stun gun to her lips as if blowing away imaginary smoke. With a wry smile, she acknowledged the group of women gathered in her living room to witness her in-home presentation. “And
, ladies, is how you keep from becoming a statistic.”
Kate acknowledged the crowd’s polite applause.
“Should we call 911?” one of the women asked.
Kate nudged the man in the thigh with the tip of her shoe. “He’ll be fine. I had the voltage set on its lowest setting. Barely shocked him.” Kate dropped to one knee and leaned over to whisper into the man’s ear. “How you doing, Rog? You okay?”
Her brother groaned.
Kate stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into his pants pocket. “On your feet. It’s time to get started on refreshments.”
Roger pulled himself into a sitting position. “I can’t feel my toes.”
“Aw, poor thing. Now stop being a baby and help me with the refreshments.”
Roger massaged the inside of his leg. “Seriously, how come you can’t just sell Mary Kay like other women?”
is more fun.” Kate fingered the top of her brother’s head. “Is this a bald spot?”
“Probably from where the voltage exited.”
“Ha, ha. Good one, Rog. On your feet. Repeat: I need you to get the snacks ready.”
“I mean it, Sis. You need to get a different part-time job. And preferably one that does
involve shocking me with a stun gun. What if one of those ladies zaps a guy just because he stops her to ask for directions? Ever thought about that?”
“If men weren’t always leering and groping, we wouldn’t have to arm ourselves.”
“Can’t prove it by the guys I’ve dated.” She glanced toward the kitchen. “When you get in the kitchen make sure you put ice in the cups and napkins on trays. Last week you forgot.”
Kate stepped over her brother and started toward the living room. She hated using Roger as target practice, but she
paying him. And as a struggling actor, he needed all the income he could get.
When she reached the living room, Kate adjusted the blinds, lessening the glare from the setting sun.
A petite young woman with a saffron bruise on her cheek asked, “Is your brother going to be okay?”
“Oh yeah, he’ll be fine. I had the voltage turned all the way down. Roger is a Tom Cruise wannabe suffering from a terminal case of melodrama. That’s why he behaved the way he did when I zapped him. It’s
theatrics.” She glanced in the direction of the foyer. “Well, most of it, anyway.”
“Has he ever been in anything I would recognize?”
“Doubtful.” Enough about Rog already. “Help yourself to the Cajun dip. It’s to die for.”
Another of Kate’s guests slathered a cracker and asked, “Who did your drapes?”
“A mail order company called
It’s Curtains For You
. The owner is one of my clients. Or was. Now she’s doing time for simple assault.” Kate grinned; the rest of the women did not. Noting the shocked looks on the women’s faces, she quickly added, “I’m kidding, girls. You have to keep a sense of humor when you’re armed and dangerous. Otherwise, you might not have the courage to pull the trigger.” Ripping open a packet of marketing materials, Kate dealt each woman a Tasmania Taser brochure. She had no need to review the glossy pamphlet—she could quote the statistics from memory.
A third of all female murder victims are killed by their spouse or partner. One-quarter of women would be sexually assaulted before they turned fifty. Another third would be molested by a boyfriend, husband, or relative.