About The Book:
My Reveiw:
A Light In The Window is a wonderful book not just for the holidays but for just about anytime of the year. I loved how feisty the characters were with each other. My favorite part would probably be the part where Marceline and Patrick were fighting over a rag and who would mop. In the end, the floor never got moped.
The Author perfectly showed us what Marceline had to endure before she found the one that was meant for her. And all she went through was hard she still found him in the end.
“Shall we toss to see who mops the floor?” she asked, forcing a levity to her tone she didn’t quite feel.
He slipped the now damp dishtowel over a
brass hook bolted to the side of the cabinet and turned, a glimmer of
tease invading his serious gaze. “Odd, I wouldn’t have pegged you for
a gambling woman, Miss Murphy.” He slanted against the counter, arms
folded.
She flipped a stray curl over her
shoulders and sashayed into the kitchen, dishrag in hand and a smirk on
her face. “Of course I am, Mr. O’Connor—I gambled on friendship with
you, didn’t I?”
Fishing a coin from his pocket, he shot
her a grin. “That was a matter of intelligence, not risk.” He lobbed a
nickel at her and she caught it one-handed, coaxing a throaty chuckle
from his lips. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before,
Marceline?”
“Because I have,” she said with a cocky
smile, feeling a bit reckless. She strutted over and fisted her hand,
thumb tucked and dishrag dangling while she positioned the coin on
top. “Julie and I used to toss to see who got to read a book first,
you know.”
His teeth gleamed white. “How decadent.”
Her smile was smug. “No, Mr. Wiseacre, ‘decadent’ will be me enjoying an oatmeal cookie at the table with feet propped while you
mop the floor.” She arched a brow. “Ready?” With practiced dexterity,
she popped her thumb beneath the nickel, and it launched in the air,
her breathing suspended while the coin toppled over and over.
Plunk. With a devious smile, Patrick snatched it just inches from her hand and slapped it on top of his. “Call it.”
She pursed her lips, eyes squinted as
she tried to visualize which side of the coin it might be. “Heads,” she
said with a confident hike of her chin, praying her intuition was
correct.
His groan rose in the air when he lifted
his palm. “I hate mopping the floor,” he muttered, slipping the
nickel back in his pocket.
Giddy over her win, she giggled. “Don’t
be a baby, Patrick, a little soapy water won’t hurt you.” Mischief
bubbled up along with her laughter as she sloshed the rag in the sudsy
dishwater and flicked it at him, intending only to splatter a few
drops his way. She gasped when the rag accidentally flew from her
hand. Eyes wide, her jaw dropped as it pelted him in the face and fell
to the floor, leaving soapy water sluicing down his dark-bristled
cheek. “Oh, P-patrick, I am so s-sorry …” Her voice trailed off into a
fit of giggles she could no more stop than the water stains that
dribbled down his trousers into a puddle at his feet.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that,
darlin’ …” he said with a glint of retaliation. Whisking the sopping
rag up off of the floor, he squeezed it with a lightning thrust of his
arm, showering Marcy’s torso—and Miss Clara’s apron front—with soapy
water.
Marcy shrieked and giggled, but not
before dousing Patrick’s chest with a slash of her hand in the sink,
slamming him with a wave of dirty dishwater before she darted away.
Flushed with excitement, she felt like a little girl again, having a
pillow fight with Julie. Adrenaline coursed while she scrambled to the
other side of the table, her breathing hard and hands braced to a
chair. “Come on, Patrick—truce,” she begged, tone breathless.
Dipping the dishrag into the dirty water
once again, he casually tossed the sodden rag back and forth while he
ambled toward the table with a wicked grin. “Sure, Marceline—right
after I even the score.”
Her stomach skittered as she pleaded,
eyes darting to the door and back with a nervous laugh. “Miss Clara
will be back any minute, and she said not to start any trouble.”
Step by step, his grin never wavered as he rounded the table. “I didn’t.”
“Patrick, please—I’ll be good, I
promise.” Her body pulsed with adrenaline as she skirted the table in
the opposite direction, praying Miss Clara would return before she got
soaked.
His husky chuckle sent goose bumps up her arms. “I know, Marcy—good and wet.”
With a wild shriek she made a break for
the door, laughing so hard, she didn’t hear him coming until he
whirled her around. Her laughter turned to squeals when she tried to
get away, but he clamped a steel arm to her waist while he held the
rag dangerously close to her neck. “Repeat after me, Marceline,” he
whispered, eyes issuing a challenge. “Patrick, I’m a brat, I’m sorry,
and I will never do this again.”
Pulse sprinting, she giggled, eyes flicking from him to the rag in his hand, weighing her options. “And if I don’t?”
One dark brow jutted high as his smile eased into a grin. “You won’t have to bathe tonight, darlin’.”
His words warmed both her cheeks and her temper. “You wouldn’t,” she dared.
“Only one way to find out.” There was a bit of the devil in his eye, the rag dangling precariously close to her neck
Marcy sucked in a deep breath. “All
right, Patrick,” she said, skin tingling with mischief and eye on the
rag, “I’m a brat, I’m sorry, and I … won’t promise—” Lunging,
she whipped the rag from his hands so fast, he never saw it coming,
christening him with dirty dishwater like Father Fitz christened babies
in the back of the church.
He hooked her waist before she could
escape, and her high-pitch giggles merged with his husky laughter as
she flailed in his arms, a death grip on the soppy rag thrashing over
their heads. Dishwater flew every which way while he tried to reclaim
it, but Marcy hid it behind her back with squeals of laughter. Locking
her to his chest with one arm, he circled her waist with his other,
his breath warm on her cheek as he grappled to claim the win.
“Give … it … up … Patrick,” she
breathed, her words punctuated by shrieks and shallow rasps as she
tried to wrestle free, “you will … never win …”
Her words seemed to
paralyze him, and in a single heave of her breath, his body stilled
against hers. She could feel the ragged rise and fall of his chest, the
hot press of his arm at the small of her back, the wild hammering of
her pulse in her ears. All at once, she was painfully aware of his
nearness, bare inches away from the dark stubble that peppered his jaw.
His hard-muscled chest was so close she could almost feel the
dampness of his shirt while the familiar scent of spices and pine
whirled her senses. His breathing was ragged like hers, warm and sweet
with the faint scent of chocolate from his chocolate cream pie, and
when his gaze lowered to her lips, heat coiled through her so strong,
it sapped all moisture from her throat.
The silence was deafening
as he stared, a battle waging in eyes that eclipsed to a dark fervor,
shocking her when they quivered her belly. “I will never give up,
Marceline,” he whispered, his words a tender caress. His lips parted to
emit shallow breaths, and fire singed when his glance flickered to
her mouth once again.
“T-take it …” she whispered, alarm curling in her stomach. Dear Lord, had he meant to kiss me?
Prodding the rag to his chest, she pushed him away while heat throbbed
in her cheeks. She took an awkward step back, gaze on the floor as she
buffed at her arms with brisk motion. “Goodness, Miss Clara will have
our hides,” she said with nervous chuckle, unable to look at him even
yet. “You win, Patrick—I surrender.” She forced a casual tone and
attempted to side-step him on her way to the broom closet.
Her heart seized when he halted her with
a gentle hand. “Marcy …” His voice was somber and steeped with
regret. “Please forgive me …”
“For what?” A deep voice sounded from the door, shattering what was left of Marcy’s calm.
Julie Lessman is an award-winning author whose tagline of "Passion With a Purpose" underscores her intense passion for both God and romance. Winner of the 2009 ACFW Debut Author of the Year and Holt Medallion Awards of Merit for Best First Book and Long Inspirational, Julie is also the recipient of 14 Romance Writers of America awards and was voted by readers as "Borders Best of 2009 So Far: Your Favorite Fiction." Chosen as the #1 Romance Fiction Author of the Year in the Family Fiction magazine 2012 and 2011 Readers Choice Awards, Julie was also awarded #1 Historical Fiction Author of the Year in that same poll and #3 Author of the Year, #4 Novel of the Year and #3 Series of the year. She resides in Missouri with her husband, daughter, son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter and is the author of "The Daughters of Boston" series--A Passion Most Pure, A Passion Redeemed, and A Passion Denied. Book 1 in her "Winds of Change" series A Hope Undaunted ranked #5 on Booklist's Top 10 Inspirational Fiction for 2010. You can contact Julie through her website at www.julielessman.com
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