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About the author:
An Ojibway from Northwestern Ontario, Maggie resides in the country with her husband and their fur babies, two beautiful Alaskan Malamutes. When she’s not writing, she can be found pulling weeds in the flower beds, mowing the huge lawn, walking the Mals deep in the bush, teeing up a ball at the golf course, fishing in the boat for walleye, or sitting on the deck at her sister’s house, making more wonderful memories with the people she loves most.
What inspired you to write your book?
I used to enjoy taking trips to the Mall of America back in the late 90s early 00s with my mother and father. We'd always stop at the Black Bear Casino on the Fond Du Lac reservation for their yummy fry bread and wild rice soup. And I thought to myself, "Why not have an Ojibway woman stopping in at a casino on her way to the Black Friday sales on the Thanksgiving USA weekend."
Here is a short sample from the book:
Tripp had clocked out for the day. He was also far from the employee parking lot, but the shining sun had compelled a stroll around the perimeter. Although he didn’t have his communication headset on, he could alert another security guard if he required assistance.
He stopped. She was parked in the front lot far from the hotel, holding an ice cream and staring at a midnight-blue four by four crew-cab truck. Her long black hair fluttered in the light, warm breeze, and his Adam’s apple swelled. A fluffy beige coat hugged her slim body.
She couldn’t be a car thief since she held an ice cream cone.
“Do you need any help?” he called out, his usual question to anyone lurking around the parked vehicles.
She pivoted, presenting a beautiful round face, bright ebony eyes, plump lips painted a sexy shade of red, and full cheeks sweet enough to tempt any man to sample.
“I’m okay,” she said in a voice that was friendly, but a hint of professionalism lurked in her tone, possibly a habit from her job. “I’m hoping it’s a loose spark plug. If not, I’ll call roadside assistance.”
Before ambling up to her, Tripp memorized the license plate number. A Canadian. He set his hand on the vehicle, another part of his training—always leave his fingerprints behind…just in case. “Your ride died?”
“It won’t start.” She withdrew a cell phone from her coat. “I was going to use the manual to try to figure out the problem. You’re only allowed to use roadside assistance four times a year, and it—”
He couldn’t help his chuckle. “Let me guess. It takes a long time for it to arrive on the rez, huh?”
She flashed him perfect white teeth. “You live in the boonies, too?”
“Just down the highway. Which rez you from?”
“Rainy Lake First Nation.”
“Oh, that’s only about three hours from here. Just passing through to the Twin Cities?”
“Yes. It’s Black Friday tomorrow.” The formality vanished. Her speech was sweeter than her ice cream. “I guess I should use my roadside assistance. It is nearing the end of the year.”
A practical woman? Anyone else would’ve called for assistance right away, not debate whether they should use up one of their four free allotments.
“Excuse me.” She opened the truck door and grabbed a leather purse, and from the looks of it, it was expensive.
“I’m Tripp. Tripp Beargrease.” He extended his hand. Yes, as one of the supervisors for security, he was obliged to help, but he also sort of wanted to stick around.
“Paulina Natawance.” She held out her perfectly groomed hand.
When her palm met his, soothing warmth coated his flesh.
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