This grumpy, wounded introvert with a bad attitude is definitely not falling miserably in love with his sunshine neighbor. "Maybe a change of scenery will be good for you, Dutch." That's what my editor told me. As if transplanting from San Francisco to Haven-aka nowhere-New York would change my situation. I still couldn't write and I couldn't tell anyone why. Not my publisher, not my family, not even my editor. It was my dark, cataclysmic secret. Telling the truth could end my career, but saying nothing eroded my trust and ability to put words on the page. My last chance to save my career was this lakeside cottage and a six month deadline. What I didn't count on was her. Phoebe Valentine. My sole neighbor who would not be ignored. No matter how much I tried to push her away, she kept showing up. She was sunshine and color, chaos and laughter, warmth and healing. She was everything I didn't deserve. But I was starved for it. Starved for her. In ways I've never known. And this place by the lake with its own mysteries became more than solace. Even the town sparked something inside of me I thought I'd lost forever. Haven.n. a place of safety or refuge. What if my haven was actually Phoebe? And loving her was what unlocked the door to the light and the words I missed more than breath. And being loved by her gave me the strength to tell the truth. Come what may. Edit: This grumpy, wounded author with a bad attitude is irrevocably in love with his sunshine neighbor. And he's never letting her go.
