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The Husband Maker by Karey White
Charlotte’s a girl with nicknames. She may not love being called Charles or Chuck, but the hardest nickname to take is the one she was given in college, the one that’s followed her now for too many years. They call her “the husband maker” and sadly, it fits. Every guy she’s dated since high school has become his next girlfriend’s husband. Not hers. Not three girlfriends down the road. The next.
Is she doing something wrong or is she just cursed?
When Kyle Aldsworth enters the picture and sweeps her off her feet, Charlotte begins to hope that maybe she’s not destined to be single forever. A senator’s son with political aspirations of his own, Kyle’s wealthy, handsome, and in need of a wife. Will Charlotte be disappointed yet again, or will she finally be able to make a husband for herself?
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Author Karey White
Karey White grew up in Utah, Idaho, Oregon, and Missouri. She attended Ricks College and Brigham Young University. Her first novel, Gifted, was a Whitney Award Finalist.
She loves to travel, read, bake treats, and spend time with family and friends. She and her husband are the parents of four great children. She teaches summer creative writing courses to young people and is currently working on her next book.
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Coming Fall 2014 – Charlotte’s Story continues in The Match Maker
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Enjoy an Excerpt
My apartment intercom buzzed. “Yes?” I answered.
“It’s Kyle Aldsworth.” He had a deep, rich voice in spite of the static that accompanied it.
“Great. I’ll be right down.” I ran to the window that overlooked the sidewalk in front of my apartment. I didn’t have a great angle. The door to our building was narrow and sat behind a wrought iron gate between Cuddy’s Clip Shop and Grandpa Guo’s Shoe Repair. Cuddy’s was two floors below us, and if guests were standing too close to the door, they were blocked from view by the barber pole attached to the side of the building.
Kyle stood a few feet from the door, allowing me a birds-eye view of dark, thick hair and a navy suit. If he looked up, I’d be able to see his face, which Jayne had compared to a clean-shaven Jake Gyllenhaal. Of course, if he looked up, he’d probably see I was spying out my window instead of coming to the door. I took one last look at my gray and white striped dress, grabbed my yellow cardigan, and headed down.
“You must be Charlotte,” he said when I opened the door. I smiled and looked up—yes up—at one of the most incredible faces I’d ever gone on a date with. Jayne had been wrong. He wasn’t a beardless Jake Gyllenhaal. He was Jake plus Cary Grant plus Captain VonTrapp, with a little of Jonny Lee Miller’s Mr. Knightley thrown in for good measure. Perhaps that sounds ridiculous, but you weren’t looking at him.
All intelligent thought abandoned me, leaving me unable to remember for sure what my name was.
What kind of game was Jayne playing with me? Kyle was much too beautiful for me. He’d have probably been too beautiful for Grace Kelly.
“You are Charlotte Emerson, right?”
How long had I been standing there gawping at him?
“Yes. I’m Charlotte.”
“Whew! You had me worried for a second. I’m Kyle. It’s good to meet you.” He extended his hand and shook mine. His hand was perfect—good size, warm and dry, nice grip without too much enthusiasm. He was a hand-shaking artist. Great. He’d stopped shaking my hand and I hadn’t relinquished my grip. I quickly withdrew mine and turned to lock the iron gate. My face burned, and I fidgeted with the key for a few extra seconds to give my cheeks a chance to return to their normally fair complexion.
Kyle was smiling when I turned back around. “My car’s around the corner.”