Sven's Beard Bundle

"This book had me laughing, crying and feeling all the feels." - Goodreads reviewer"

One of the best books I've read in ages!" - Goodreads reviewer

"It is an AMAZING read. I couldn't put this book down...I was hooked from the first page." - Goodreads reviewer

Chapter One

Avon

“Well, crap.”

I was not at my destination, though the Maps app on my phone said otherwise. While I was supposedly at an attorney’s office, the giant Viking I stood in front of couldn’t give me legal advice, what with him being a bronze statue and all. 

Sven’s Beard, Minnesota: population 3,621. Temperature: frozen tundra. GPS accuracy: nonexistent.

The statue in front of City Hall had to be at least eight feet tall, wearing chain mail and a decorative breastplate on its torso. Beneath was a barely there loincloth, legs rippling with muscle and thick calves encased in tall boots. His helmet had horns and his beard flowed long and thick, reaching his waist. The midsection of the beard had been rubbed by so many hands it now shone a warm shade of gold, but the rest of the statue was still dark bronze.

“Need directions?” 

The deep voice broke my trance and I jumped, turning toward the speaker. I craned my neck to see his face because while he wasn’t as tall as the statue, he stood well over six feet. He also had a beard, but his was dark, short, and neatly trimmed. His hair was also cropped short, and his eyes were a vibrant, mossy green. He was broad-chested—an absolute lumberjack of a man¾and he wore a police uniform.

Stunned silent, I openly stared at him. Surely there was a pile of wood somewhere in need of this man’s chopping skills.

“Ma’am?” he prodded. 

I cleared my throat and smiled at him. “Hi, I’m looking for Max Morrison’s office.”

He glared for a split second and then pointed across the street. “Right over there. It’s the one with the arched windows.”

I immediately forgave my Maps app because maybe this run-in was fortuitous. Afterward, my agenda was wide open, and my flight home wasn’t until Monday. I wanted to keep the conversation going. Maybe the lumberjack could keep me warm tonight. Smart? No. But tempting, yes.

“Thanks. How did you know I’m not from around here?”

He shrugged. “Only out-of-towners stare at Sven, and you’re dressed like a tourist.”

His derisive tone made me glance down at my heels and wide-leg linen pants. My feet were absolutely freezing, and my lightweight trench coat wasn’t even close to keeping away the icy chill of the wind.

It was November in northern Minnesota. I’d known it would be colder than my home in San Diego, but admittedly, I hadn’t expected drifting snow and bitterly cold winds. I wasn’t giving this guy the satisfaction of admitting that, though.

“I’m only in town for a few days,” I said, trying to force my teeth to stop chattering. “For a business meeting. So I’m wearing business attire.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, I can see that. Get some boots, or you’ll end up with frostbite.”

“Wow, that’s so thoughtful of you,” I said with over-the-top sweetness.

“Just don’t want the local hospitals filling up with tourists who should’ve known better.” He sent another pointed glance at my footwear.

So much for my attraction to him.     

“Okay, Officer—” I read the gold name bar pinned to the surly man’s uniform. “Grady, thanks for the hospitality. You’re quite the ambassador for Sven’s Beard.”

“Wasn’t trying to be an ambassador,” he said, scowling. “And it’s Chief Grady.”

“Well, Chief, you can get back to writing speeding tickets because I’m going to my meeting.”

“Fantastic,” he deadpanned. 

It was a bad idea to flip off the police chief, so I put my hand in my coat pocket before extending my middle finger. What a jackass. He’d lost his chance at getting into the new Ho Ho Ho bikini-cut undies I was wearing, a gift from my best friend Blair.

Which was his loss because the Ho Ho Ho thing had nothing to do with Christmas. 

***

“Wait, the what?” I asked Max Morrison a few minutes later.

“The Sven’s Beard Chronicle. It’s our town’s weekly newspaper.” 

I sat back in my chair, a leather wingback that added to the vintage vibe of Max’s office. He was a Sam Waterston from Law and Order look-alike, and he had a massive oak desk and bookcases filled with leather-bound legal reference books. I’d taken time off work to fly here for the reading of the will of Peter Douglas, an uncle I never knew existed until getting a call from Max a few days ago. The word inheritance had gotten my immediate attention. 

“A weekly newspaper?” I was taken aback. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Max’s smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Well, Pete filled it up with town news and ads every week. It’s very important to Sven’s Beard. That’s how we find out who’s getting married and what’s on the school lunch menu. And of course, who got arrested.”

So it was a business, like any other. I could sell it and add the revenue to my windfall. Not that I knew how much my windfall was, because I’d gone off on a mental tangent about the newspaper.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting that,” I said, giving Max a quick smile. “I shouldn’t have interrupted you.”

He looked back down at the papers on his desk and continued reading. “The Sven’s Beard Chronicle and all its assets. Pete owned the building, too. It’s one of the most beautiful buildings in our downtown area. He had an apartment above the paper.”

I waited, trying to look appreciative. But I still had more questions than answers.

“What are the assets?” 

Max lifted the paper he was reading from and read from another one beneath it.

“I’m in the process of making a full list,” he said. “But bottom line, it’s all the office equipment and furniture, the building itself and the printing press. Pete spent a bundle on that press.”

I rubbed my temple, worst-case scenarios now flooding my mind. Working in sales had turned me into a number cruncher.

“What about the debts?” I asked. “If he financed that press, am I responsible for the payments now? Does the business have the money to support itself?”

Max’s gaze softened. “I’m in the process of gathering all the numbers as of the day of Pete’s passing. But from what I can tell so far, he didn’t have much in the way of debts or money in the bank. He was able to pay his people and put the paper out every week with subscriptions and ad revenue.”

“Okay.” I took a deep breath. “But I live in California. I’m only in town until Monday.”

“I understand. Here’s what I’d do if I were you, Avon. Go by the Chronicle and meet the staff. Let them know you’re the new owner and they can show you around. Even though Pete owned the paper, Bess knows that place in and out. Maybe she could be your interim publisher.”

I nodded. “Okay. But then what?”

“I assume you’ll want to sell it?” There was a twinge of sadness in his voice.

Of course I wanted to sell it. I couldn’t own a weekly newspaper in Sven’s Beard, Minnesota. Though technically, I already did. In a matter of minutes, I’d gone from dollar signs in my eyes to abject panic.

What if the building caught on fire? What if the paper started losing money? I could end up spending my own hard-earned cash on this inheritance if I wasn’t careful.

“Yes,” I told Max. “As soon as possible. I live in San Diego and have a full-time job. There’s no way I can manage this business like my uncle did.”

“I understand. I’ll start putting feelers out to see if I can find you a buyer.”

“Thanks.”

He grinned. “You bet. And I hope you don’t mind my saying, Avon…you look a lot like your mother. I was sure sorry to hear about the accident.”

I met his gaze across the desk, my throat tightening. It had been nearly two years since I’d lost my parents, but the wound would never fully heal. When I was growing up, we’d lived a quiet life in Phoenix, my parents telling me my whole life that neither of them had any other family. They had never, not even once, talked about where they grew up. So it was a shock to hear that Max had known my mom.

“You knew her?” I asked, keeping my tone level.

“Oh yeah.” It sounded more like yah with the twinge of his accent. “We were in the same class. Amelia was bright and kindhearted.” He grinned. “And was she ever pretty. Any guy in our class would have married Amelia Cooke without hesitation. But she only had eyes for…” His expression turned sheepish and he cleared his throat. “Someone else.” 

Did that mean he knew my father, too? I was about to ask when Max lightly smacked his palm on his desk and stood up. 

“I’ll walk you out, Avon. I’m meeting my wife and daughter downtown to look at floral arrangements for my daughter’s wedding. I don’t know what they think an old dog like me can contribute, but Amy’s our only daughter, so I’ll do my best.”

He walked over to a coat tree in the corner of his office and took a long wool coat from a hook, then grabbed a red-and-black-checkered hat with earflaps that was lined with fleece.

“Where’s your coat?” he asked me, his brow furrowing with concern.

“Oh, I just brought this one,” I said, putting my trench coat back on.

“Well, that won’t do. Not in Sven’s Beard during November.”

He took another coat from one of the hooks—a thick, lined Carhartt one.

“Now, I know it’s not fashionable, but it’ll keep you warm,” he said. “And there’s an ear warmer in one of the pockets.”

His concern reminded me so much of my dad that I had to fight back tears. Though I wanted to tell him it was okay, I couldn’t say no to that fuzzy lining. 

“Thank you. I’ll return it before I leave on Monday.”

He waved a hand. “Nah, you’ll need it for your trip home. It’s the least I can do for Pete’s niece, Avon. He did our little town such a great service with the Chronicle.”

I slid into the coat and followed him to the front door of his office, where he nodded at the woman sitting behind the front desk.

“Marian, I’m off to the flower shop,” he said.

“Okay, boss.” Her accent made it sound like ookay. “We’ll hold the fort down.”

Max held the door open for me and then pointed to the nearby intersection where the statue of Sven stood in front of City Hall. There was a building at each of the four corners, and one of them was a red brick two-story with a retro neon red sign that read “Sven’s Beard Chronicle” above the entrance.

“There it is,” he said. “I’ll be in touch, and you can call my office if there’s anything you need.”

I smiled at him. “Thanks, and thanks again for the coat.”

I waved and set off in the direction of the building, buttoning the coat to block out the biting cold wind. It was surreal, walking toward a business I owned, even if I wasn’t going to own it for long.

Leadership wasn’t my strength. I liked to stay focused on my own work and nothing else. In the four years I’d worked in pharmaceutical sales, I’d set sales records and managed to bank almost eighty thousand dollars. I was close to my goal of having enough money to quit my job and travel. Fiji, Iceland, and the rest of Europe were at the top of my list. And if I got enough money from the sale of the Chronicle, I could add my dream destination—the Amazon rainforest.

I’d learned from losing my parents that tomorrow is never guaranteed. I was only twenty-nine, still young enough to have the adventures I dreamed of. 

The doors and windows of the building were mirrored, so I only saw my own reflection as I approached the double doors that led inside. Though I didn’t know what I was expecting when I opened the doors, the sight that greeted me made my jaw drop.

The walls were covered in dark paneling and bore mounted heads of deer, elk, and antelope, as well as huge glassy-eyed fish on wood plaques. The open floor plan allowed for several large wooden desks to create a spacious work area and there was a black-and-white-checkered tile floor. A woman with a gray helmet of curls was stubbing a cigarette out in an ashtray as she surveyed me.

I’d worked at the newspaper in college at UCLA, and it had been nothing like this. This place looked more like a poker hall than a business.

“It’s about time you got here,” the woman said with a glare. “We go to press on Monday, you know.”

I lowered my brows, sure she was mistaking me for someone else. “I’m Avon Douglas, the new owner here.”

“Oh, I know who you are. You’re the spitting image of your mom. Figured Pete would leave you the paper. Hang up your coat and I’ll show you your office.”

“I’m not…I won’t be needing an office.”

She snort-laughed and stood. “Well, the paychecks need to be signed and we need the news content for next week’s paper. Pick a desk and get to work.”

A man with a dark, bushy mustache walked into the room. “There she is! Avon, I’m Sam.” He walked over and shook my hand, his grip tight. “I’m your sports editor. Looking forward to working with you. And hey, do you want me to take Shawn to the playoff game tomorrow to shoot photos, or am I taking them myself?”

I looked between him and the woman I assumed was Bess. “I have no idea how to run a newspaper.”

Sam chuckled. “Well, we’re here to help.”

“I only stopped by to introduce myself,” I said. “I’m not staying.”

Bess scowled. “Look, missy, this ain’t a job you can work a few hours a week at. I owe Ron over at Ron’s Auto a hundred and fifty bucks for fixing my car and I need my paycheck so I can get my car back. You need to march into that office over there and get moving.”

I supposed she had a point. I didn’t want the employees here going without their paychecks. So I cleared my throat and tried to look boss-ish, even though Bess had already made it clear who the real boss was around here.

“This office?” I asked, pointing to a doorway as I walked toward it.

“That’s right. The computer password is c-r-a-p-p-i-e278.”

“Crappy?” I grinned. “Come on. It can’t be that bad working here.”

“It’s a fish,” Bess said, lighting up another cigarette.

“Right. I’ll just…” I pointed at the door and then opened it.

So far, my windfall felt more like a windfail.