Tawna Fenske

I have my reasons for walking into Chelsea Singer’s cupcake shop with an axe. Too bad I’ve forgotten what they are. Hell, I forgot my own name the second she flashed those blue eyes and offered up a double-fudge cupcake with Irish cream frosting. I may look like a grumpy lumberjack, but I’m a softie for sweets, single moms, and my massive, messy family. The family stuff gets messier now that we’re running a resort together on our late-father’s ranch, which brings my siblings that much closer to discovering I’m not who they think I am. As things heat up with Chelsea, I’m falling faster than an old-growth redwood filled with buttercream and lit on fire and then maybe chopped into kindling. It’s a figure of speech, okay? And it’s damned inconvenient, since it turns out someone wants to hurt Chelsea and her daughter. But they’ll have to get through me first. And no way in hell will that happen.

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