The Love at First Sight Box Set

The Love at First Sight Box Set
Karla Sorensen Smartypants Romance
www.smartypantsromance.com


Contents
Baking Me Crazy
Author's Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Batter of Wits
Prologue
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Karla Sorensen
Other Books by Smartypants Romance


Baking Me Crazy
Love at First Sight Book #1


Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
Copyright © 2019 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
Made in the United States of America
eBook Edition


Contents
Author's Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Acknowledgments


Dedication
To my mom, the biggest cheerleader in my life.


Author's Note
Approaching the character of Joss, it was very important to both me and Penny to make sure that she was honestly written and an accurate reflection what life might be like for a young woman living with Transverse Myelitis. I could probably fill an entire chapter talking about the research that took over my life while I was working on this book, the women who inspired Joss and what she's physically capable of, and how she lives her life. I could fill another chapter talking about Brittany, the amazing young woman who offered to be my sensitivity reader for Baking Me Crazy. Because of Brittany, and our conversations, emails and online chats, I changed the reason that Joss is in a wheelchair. I could talk to you about Steph, a wonderful, kind blogger, who took the time to make sure that I was telling Joss’ story in a way that respected her own journey.
Joss is a fictional individual that is directly inspired by a couple different women, and that inspiration plays out in her emotions, her personality, and her physical capabilities. And because she is an individual, it's impossible for Joss to fully encompass or represent everyone's experience. If there are errors in wording, or phrasing, those errors are mine alone, and in no way reflective of the people who shared their story with me.
I hope you love her half as much as I do.
For more information on Transverse Myelitis, please visit myelitis.org


Prologue Levi
Five years earlier
Until the day I finally spoke to Jocelyn Abernathy, I never really believed in the Buchanan curse. I made it to the ripe age of eighteen years and three days old before it finally got hold of me. I'd heard my father talk about meeting my mom when he was fifteen, and how it felt like someone grabbed his heart and said, hey, look at that one, we like that one. My middle brother told me that when he met Sylvia—both of them sixteen—his brain short-circuited, and it took him two months to be able to make intelligible conversation with her.
As far back as my great-great-great-grandfather, it’s been said that Buchanan men fall in love only once, and they fall in love—real, true love—the moment they meet the one. And once a Buchanan found The One, that was it. Nothing would come close, no one else would suffice, and you'd lay your heart out on the train tracks before walking away.
The day I met Jocelyn Abernathy, it was her hair that caught my notice first. It sprang out of the top of her head like someone shook up a box of wound-up, champagne-colored springs and then set them loose. It was so crazy, so wildly overwhelming, that her bright blue eyes and high cheekbones were a very distant second and third.
Of the players on the team I was assistant coaching, she was the fastest, had the most natural talent—her three-point shots were so beautiful, I almost cried when I watched her run drills—but she was also the quietest. It took two weeks of practice before I even got the chance to talk to her.
Every time I saw her use deft, strong movements to propel her wheelchair forward, blond curls bouncing wildly when she spun around to steal the ball during practice or when she'd ram into the side of someone else's chair to try to snag a rebound, I got this persistent tug in my head.
You know when you woke up in the middle of the night and realized you forgot to do something? It was like that. But the thing I was forgetting felt critical. Forgetting your mom's birthday. Forgetting to show up for a midterm. Forgetting to do your taxes—not that I was old enough to do my own taxes, but it was on that level.
That feeling like I hadn't done something vital was a churning in my stomach, all acid and knots, until practice on the first day of week three. Along the back of the gymnasium, part of the converted elementary school that we used as the Green Valley Community Center, I sat with my legs dangling over the edge of the wooden stage, looking at Coach's beat-up clipboard to prep for the drills he wanted to run that day.
Because the weather was still warm, and it made it easier for our players, we had the metal doors propped open with little plastic wedges. I heard her chair pop noisily over the small metal lip of the entrance when she came in.
"Abernathy, right?" I heard Earl ask from his perch at the long rectangular table. Earl and Merl, both in their nineties